The Marvelous Misadventures of Weylyn Blackwolf
by EireCat
Summary: The sometimes odd, always swashbuckling tale of Weylyn Blackwolf: a halfelf on an unwilling search for destiny, and his encounters with holy quests, shiny buttons and undead feminists. Rated for language, violence, and an unhealthy dose of awesome.
1. On the deck of Black Maggie

***Author's Note: Hello all and sundry, just a few notes of explanation, disclaimer, and random babblings before you jump into this tale. First of all, I do not own anything remotely related to the Dungeons and Dragons universe. . . that's really just to cover my arse as *most* of the details in here are not from a strictly D&D universe, but more closely tied to my good friend Tim's campaign house rules. Weylyn belongs to me, so hands off. LOL Secondly, I plan on the tone of this story changing somewhat drastically over time. I intend for it to become rather silly and lighthearted eventually, so if you're looking for blood, vinegar, and angst, you probably won't want to read much past the first chapter. You may not anyway, but that's not the point. ; ) Thirdly, I welcome feedback of ALL kinds. If you love it, tell me. If you hate it, tell me. This is not an open invitation to flame, but I do very much welcome constructive criticism. Fourthly, in case you're wondering, yes, the title is inspired by Lloyd Alexander's wonderful book The Marvelous Misadventures of Sebastian. I heartily recommend it to anyone looking for a good fun read. And now, with no further ado.I hope you enjoy my odd little tale. Peace all.***  
  
~EireCat  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
It is a sad fact of this life that happiness is highly overrated. It isn't everything and no matter what some of the more starry-eyed may say, it is certainly not always a good thing. For instance, what makes a marauding Visigoth happy may not be joyous news to the villagers whose houses he has just set on fire. And what makes the fisherman happy may not be seen as especially conducive to the welfare of the trout he has just hooked. Therefore it is probably best to go through life being very careful not to do anything so silly as wishing people happiness.  
  
Weylyn was very happy. It was one of those frighteningly perfect days. The sun was dashing itself to diamonds on the waves that rolled against the hull of his ship. There was a fine breeze running from the south that carried with it the tang of salt and the bright song of gulls. It played along the tips of the white waves and tangled itself in his long black hair, blowing it every which way in a mass of charcoal against his face. Humming tunelessly to himself, he tucked the errant strands behind the points of his ears and continued on his easy rolling walk along the deck.  
  
The tall masts of The Black Maggie cast shadows across his path as dark as her sails. The endless cacophony of his crew at work cried shrilly in his ears, as Weylyn ran his long pale fingers lovingly over the rails as he walked, caressing each ragged scar and scratch and burn as if they were the beauty marks on the soft skin of a woman. Reaching the high hull of his ship at last, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the cold free air of his beloved sea, ever-present against the backdrop of smoke and tar, gunpowder, steel, and sweat. He smiled.  
Weylyn the Blackwolf, terror of the Ten Seas of Aurellia, was in a very good mood. And as usual, this meant that someone was going to die.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
The port city of Caladh sat like a fat guinea hen on the wide sweep of white sand that defined the bustling harbor town. Her people scurried over the lichen soaked wood of the wharfs and piers like so many ants in bright clothing. Weylyn smiled slowly as he gazed through the clear lens of his spyglass. Miles away, he could make out the bustling crowds of every race imaginable. Elves, Halflings, dwarves, half-orcs-miners and traders and sailors and mercenaries, all tumbled together in a loud jostling mass.  
  
"Beautiful, isn't it sir?" The voice came soft behind his shoulder.  
  
Weylyn lowered his spyglass thoughtfully to the loop hanging from his belt. For an instant, the laughing sea was reflected bright in the green of his eyes. He turned to the man standing at his shoulder and smiled crookedly. Well . . . "man" in the general sense. Rellan was a mixed blood: a half-elf like himself. Weylyn glanced at his first mate-- angular features, slightly pointed ears, and copper hair braided back with beads, shells and small bones. He laughed silently. Apparently the only thing both he and Rellan had inherited from their elven parents was looks. The refined sensibilities of elves hardly very often gave way to the life of piracy that they had chosen. Ah well . . . another blame to lay on a human lineage.  
  
"Beautiful?" he sighed. "Yes Rellan, Caladh is beautiful. The spice markets, the jewelry merchants, the gardens, the women. . . East of the mountains you will not find a more. . . pleasurable place to while away the tedious hours spent on shore." He lifted the glass once again to his eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. "Yes, she is beautiful Rellan. But more importantly. . . she is rich. Very, very rich. . . " His smile grew bigger, and his teeth flashed white in the pale morning sun-- the feral, mad grin of a wolf. "And today she is ours my boys. Full speed ahead."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The harbor loomed on the horizon, drawing ever tantalizing nearer. Soon. Soon all worth having would be theirs and the rest lying in smoking ruin and broken heaps of rubble and . . . Weylyn's happy reverie was broken by Rellan's hand on his shoulder. He suppressed a sigh of irritation.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Rellan did not reply immediately. His hand still on Weylyn's shoulder he was staring fixedly towards the town that still remained a medium sized speck on the horizon. Rellan's eyes were a bright silver blue most of the time, now however, the color was clouded in confusion and what Weylyn unhappily suspected looked like fear.  
  
"Do you see them? Do you see them sir? Sails on the horizon."  
  
Weylyn quirked a finely shaped eyebrow at his second in command. Really, this was getting to be too much. He had places to go and people to kill and the last thing he needed now was his first mate going to pieces on him. He sighed.  
  
"Yes, Rellan. I see the sails. This is a bloody *harbor* Rellan! Of course there are going to be sails! One would think your first big clue would be the large amount of *ships* that are present."  
  
Rellan gave no indication that he had heard, just continued staring over Weylyn's left shoulder to the sea and the bright town beyond. Finally, he shook his head softly.  
  
"No sir. Not the merchant vessels. Not the ships in the harbor." He pressed his lips together and turned finally to face his captain. "The sails coming towards us, riding our wind. The ships that bare the scarlet sails of the Aurellian navy." At that moment, the lookout high above in the crows nest gave a shout; raising the alarm that an enemy was on the horizon.  
  
Weylyn whirled around on his heel, searching the calm sea for a glimpse of the ships Rellan spoke of. No. Nothing. There was nothing out there except the rich and waiting shores of . . .  
  
Wait. Wait . . . there was something. Something that glowed bright crimson against the white sand of shore. Something coming towards them very fast. Very fast indeed. He cursed and spun around again, screaming orders to his crew.  
  
"All hands on deck my boys. Prepare to be boarded and quite possibly slaughtered. It's their death or yours at the end of a rope in the town square. And they do look so tragically heroic in their blood spattered uniforms." The red sailed ship was drawing ever closer, coming seemingly out of nowhere. A few moments more and Weylyn would be able to see how well they scrubbed their deck rails. He laughed, loud and wild, and in a single movement, drew his black steel rapier from the scabbard at his side.  
  
"Come my beauties. Let's show them how the Blackwolf howls . . . "  
  
There was no more time for words, as the red sailed ship bore down hard on them. Her captain standing tall in the bows, striking and heroic in his gold braided uniform, took his plumed hat off to brush the fall of fair hair away from his eyes. Lifting his voice over the crashing of waves and the shouting of men he called for Weylyn's attention.  
  
"My name is Captain Nathaniel Zyphire. To the captain of the Black Maggie we deliver this warning. Your ship and yourself are known in these waters. You stand accused of piracy on the Emperor's seas, a crime punishable by imprisonment and death. Stand down immediately, and surrender your ship, your crew, and yourself to me immediately. By order of the high Emperor of Aurellia." The young navy captain lifted his chin proudly, but Weylyn smiled inwardly at the slight tremble in the young man's voice. The young man was obviously new to this command; an upstart that had seen a fine prize and was now probably regretting jumping into this confrontation without more ships at his back. Quite a stripling this one was, and bigger than his breeches if he thought to so callously take on a cutthroat of such high standing as himself. The clear young voice rang out again over the clash of the waves. "What say you, pirate?"  
  
Weylyn walked slowly to the railing along the deck. The two ships rocked gently next to each other on the calm sea barely twenty feet dividing one scarred hull from the other. In the dead silence of waiting, the sound of a rapier being drawn from its scabbard rang clearly through the air.  
  
"What say I?" Weylyn smiled as he ran his hand over the blade of his rapier, opening a thin line of blood red over his palm. He clenched his hand tightly and a dark stream of red began to drip softly down to the deck at his feet. "I say the Emperor has grown fat and insolent indeed if he thinks the Blackwolf will surrender to the squealings of a puffed up babe." He spat once contemptuously. "That's what I say boy. Go home. Go home to your mother and your wet nurse and pray that I don't find you when I'm burning the rest of your sorry city to ashes."  
  
The young captain's jaw clenched. He had a feeling he was definitely over his head now, but he had been too hungry to prove himself to think to call for backup. And now, there was no turning back. He took a last despairing look at the loyal men grouped around him. How many of them would die if it came to battle? He sighed. Weylyn Blackwolf rarely took prisoners, and those who were taken captive reportedly screamed for death before it was given to them. Shaking his head against the creeping sensation of despair and more than a little guilt, he raised his voice once again.  
  
"I entreat you, sir, to reconsider. Not all your followers need die on the gallows of Caladh. Law must be followed, but I beg you not waste more lives than is necessary. Please, come aboard my ship, and we will speak."  
  
Across the distance between the ships and over the cacophony of the waves, an odd, unsettling sound reached Captain Zyphire's ears. Weylyn was chuckling low and long in the back of his throat; a cold, grating, disturbing sound that drifted in the silence and chilled the hearts of Nathaniel's crew. His clear green eyes flashed in the noon sun with laughter, anger, excitement . . . and perhaps something not altogether sane. He lifted his gaze as if to pierce Captain Zyphire straight through the heart with only the heat of his eyes. "The wolf doesn't speak boy. . . he only bites."  
  
Giving a long, chilling howl, Weylyn brought his sword down in a sweeping arc, severing one of the thick ropes that were tied to the railing. Bracing himself for the wild swing between the ships, Weylyn turned to his crew. "Now my beauties! Now for a red sea rising!" With a flash of steel and a feral howl of laughter, the crew of the Black Maggie swarmed into battle. 


	2. Blood and Saltwater

** Author's Note: Hello again all, and welcome to chapter two. Unfortunately, this chapter isn't really funny either. At ALL. So, after some consideration, I'm taking the "humor" part off of this story's genre list until I feel that it's actually deserving of it. That said, have fun with this next chapter, which I was sorely tempted to entitle "A Really Big Fight." ** ~EC  
  
In the terrible smoke and fury and noise of battle, Weylyn and Rellan fought back to back across the bloody deck. The cries of men rose heavy in the air all around them, and the stench of sweat and fear stung at their eyes. Rellan laughed as he knocked away the sharp blows from his opponent's saber.  
"My dear sir, you do throw the most wonderful parties, remind me to attend more of them." Weylyn laughed back at him, running his tongue over a tooth that had become loosened in an earlier skirmish.  
"Rellan, if I continue throwing 'parties' like this one, it is going to cost me dear in dead crewmembers." He danced out of the reach of his own attacker and took him neatly through the stomach with the point of his rapier. If Rellan had a reply to this, it was cut off, as another wave of sailors pressed their attack and slowly but unstoppably forced the two apart.  
The air hung heavy with the stench of blood and sweat. With the helmsmen of the vessels both locked in their own struggles, the two ships drifted dangerously close to each other, rocking softly on the calm sea. The scene above the water, however, was anything but calm as the two warring parties clashed together in a bloody dance across the decks of the two ships.  
Weylyn fought wildly, with his rapier in one hand and a dagger in the other and all the frightening grace and speed of his elven heritage. He dropped low on his heels to duck beneath the bright blade of a saber arcing towards his head. With one clean movement, he lunged up and forward, driving the point of his dagger deep beneath the sailor's ribcage. Suddenly spinning on the ball of his foot, he roughly removed the blade while he blocked the sudden attack coming from behind with a quick flip of his rapier.  
The sailor he crossed swords with spat vehemently at him, and cursed softly as he pressed against Weylyn's blade. This one was no young and inexperienced stripling but a tough and scarred veteran. His bright uniform fit badly on a large and grizzled frame. Weylyn winced. And he apparently had no love for pirates.  
Springing suddenly backwards, the sailor freed his blade and sharply backhanded Weylyn with the basket of his hilt. Knocked momentarily off balance, Weylyn stumbled slightly, and the old sailor was quick to press his advantage, roughly hitting him with the hilt again before sweeping his legs out from under him. Weylyn was forced to drop his rapier and hit the deck hard. He caught himself with his hands and hissed sharply as pain shot up both his wrists. Over the din of battle around him, he heard the old sailor coming up slowly behind him.  
"Not nearly as mighty now, are you pirate?" He kicked out viciously, rewarded with a soft grunt as his boot connected solidly with Weylyn's ribs. "I'm going to gut you like the dog you are, Blackwolf. As should be done to all your cowardly black-hearted kind."  
As the sailor lifted his blade for his killing strike, Weylyn rolled onto his back as lithe as a weasel and lashed out with both feet. His kick landed solidly on the sailor's midriff, and he heard the air leave his lungs with a satisfying whoosh. The man sprawled backwards onto the deck, giving Weylyn enough time to wrap his hand around the hilt of his rapier once again. In a moment, he flipped nimbly to his feet, and pinned the sailor to the deck with his knees. He leaned forward to look into the man's eyes, meeting the weathered grey with his own startling green, his breathing ragged and strained.  
"Not today old man," he whispered softly. "Not by your blade." With an expert flick of his wrist he deposed of the sailor, and rose to survey the battle around him.  
In the brief respite he was afforded, Weylyn took in the chaos around him. The deck beneath him had grown slick with saltwater and blood. He raised a hand to wipe away the thin stream of blood that ran from the corner of his mouth, and gazed dispassionately at the life and death struggles careening wildly across the decks of the two ships, grinning slightly. The naval officers were fighting bravely. He gave them that. But all the bravery in the world could not continue to stand for long against the skilled and merciless talents of his crew. Weylyn's crew was no mere ragtag bunch of dirty river bandits, but a highly selective group of talented and bloodthirsty corsairs. They fought well. And, more importantly, they fought dirty. With luck, the day would easily be theirs with little loss.  
A sudden cry brought Weylyn out of his pleasant thoughts. His head snapped up. He knew that voice. His eyes raced quickly across the deck, trying to find the source of the call, and finally they fell upon Rellan. He stood about fifty paces from Weylyn, trying to fight off the flashing blade of young Captain Zyphire with one arm hanging useless at his side. Rellan was one of the best Weylyn had ever seen with a short sword, but his labored movements betrayed the fact that he had taken some grievous injury and was quickly weakening. Bright blood from a gash in his forehead was running down his face and mingling in the dark auburn of his hair.  
Weylyn clenched his jaw against the heat that was beginning to rise behind his eyes. Not only was Rellan his first mate, he was also a close friend. Nearer than brothers the two had been from when they were children, and sometimes Weylyn felt it was only Rellan among his crew who knew the same feeling of restlessness within his soul: the curse of the half-blood who would never belong anywhere. Seeing him die at the hands of a pretty faced sailor babe was not something he would stand for. Not on *his* ship. He tightened his hand on the black leather grip of his rapier, and began bodily forcing his way across the jumble of fighting and dieing and screaming men.  
Rellan was a fierce fighter, but the loss of blood was slowly beginning to wear him into exhaustion. A harsh blow earlier had left him with a useless left arm. Rellan winced slightly as he tried to roll his shoulder back without much result. The damned thing was probably dislocated, making both unfocused and off balance. He swung his short sword up sharply to meet the coming blow from the young captain's saber, but the shock of the impact rocked through his arm and into his injured shoulder, causing him to loosen his grip just enough for the captain to suddenly disarm him. Grinning triumphantly through his ragged breathing, Captain Zyphire swung his saber in a flashing arc intended to relieve Rellan of his head.  
The blade never found its mark, however. Zyphire started at the shock as his blade came into abrupt contact with the thin black steel of a rapier, and he found himself staring into the angry green eyes of Weylyn. The young captain swallowed nervously, but still pressed his attack, this time against the pirate captain himself. The two blades flashed like minute stars in the dying light of the sun. Black and silver, they clashed together with a harsh high pitched ringing, again and again until they struck sparks that died as they were kindled on the damp wood of the deck.  
  
The shouting and clash of steel around them faded to a dull roar in their ears as the two captains danced across the deck, locked in combat. Weylyn pressed the young man ferociously, driving him backwards with blow after lightening blow. The sweat was dripping down Zyphire's face, plastering his hair to his forehead and stinging his eyes. He shook the hair out of his vision perplexedly. That the corsair would seek him out was to be expected, but that he would attack with this kind of angry viciousness? The pirate was known for his cold and calculating cruelty. He didn't understand.  
Zyphire was brought back to the present by Weylyn's next attack. The pirate captain had forced him to retreat across much of the ship, and Zyphire now stood atop the wooden barred hatch over the hold. As he stepped back further he felt the wood crack and groan ever so slightly beneath him. He risked a small glance behind him, and noticed with dismay that the hatch had been damaged by canon fire and was split raggedly across the middle.  
He had made a fatal mistake in allowing himself to become distracted, however, and in the split second he looked away, Weylyn smashed him across the face with the hilt of his rapier, splitting his lip, and then landed a spinning kick to the young man's stomach that sent him crashing backwards onto the damaged hatchway. With a muffled crack, the damaged wood gave way beneath him, and Weylyn cursed as he saw his quarry disappear into the dark hold.  
With a soft hiss of irritation, Weylyn jumped down after him, landing lightly on his feet on the dusty floorboards. He laughed softly as he scanned the room, his elven eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom. If that rat of a navy babe expected to be able to hide in the oppressive dark of the hold, he had a nasty surprise coming.  
"Come out; come out wherever you are my lovely. You can't hide forever, not from *my* eyes." His footsteps were nearly silent as he padded slowly and softly around, scanning the dark corners and the stacked barrels of supplies for any sign of Zyphire. His ears twitched slightly at the soft sound of a masked footstep behind him, and he turned with just enough time to catch the stroke that had been aimed for his head with the flat of his dagger. The battle began again, this time in the stuffy closed dark of the hold with the thunder of footfalls rumbling over their heads and their heavy breathing the only sounds.  
Trying for better purchase on the uneven boards as he matched Zyphire's blows, Weylyn shifted his feet. Unfortunately, he struck a loose stack of planking with his heel and stumbled backward. Zyphire lunged forward, slashing for Weylyn's heart. Catching himself at the last minute, Weylyn straightened and jumped backwards to avoid the dancing blade. He gasped softly as the cold steel cut deep across his stomach, and staggered back, clutching at the dark stain spreading quickly across his middle. He grit his teeth together harshly against the screaming pain in his gut and forced himself to think clearly. It wasn't fatal. Not yet anyway.  
Zyphire was standing a short distance away, breathing heavily and surveying the pirate with half closed eyes. He coughed tiredly.  
"Well Blackwolf, I give you one last chance. Throw yourself and your crew at the mercy of myself and you will not die in the dark stinking cargo hold of your own ship." He watched then with wide disbelieving eyes as Weylyn slowly straightened up, clutching his stomach and yet seeming to stare right through him to the darkest corners of his soul. In the dim light, the pirate's eyes were as green and fathomless as the sea at twilight, and they were doing their best to burn holes through Zyphire.  
"I grow tired of this, boy," rasped Weylyn. "There will be no bargains, no promises made but this one; you will die, and I will feed your sorry carcass to the sharks." With a final cry he leapt forward and fought Zyphire back with a last strength born of desperation. For a moment more the two went back and forth, evenly matched. But lashing out sharply, Weylyn caught the young captain in the wrist with the heavy elegant hilt of his rapier. With an audible snap, Zyphire's hand bent at an awkward angle and his saber fell with a clang from his nerveless fingers.  
Grinning like a man more than half mad, Weylyn lunged suddenly forward with his dagger, plunging the point through the muscle of the young man's right shoulder and through to the wooden beam directly behind him, pinning him there painfully. Zyphire's eyes grew huge with shock, as he scrabbled at the hilt of the dagger, trying to pull it out.  
Weylyn leaned close to Zyphire as he prepared to make his killing blow, and softly whispered "Goodbye, boy."  
A sudden flare of light stopped Weylyn in his tracks. Zyphire, his eyes still wide with pain and fear was muttering softly to himself, a small glowing ball of fire rapidly expanding within the circle of his hands. The fireball grew quickly, and soon it was the size of a melon, floating softly within the young man's trembling fingertips. Weylyn snarled and jumped backwards. The thrice damned boy was a mage! A *mage* of all people! And obviously an untrained one or he would have used his powers long ago to blast Weylyn's beloved ship to pieces. Weylyn growled through his teeth. "Let's not do anything stupid boy."  
Zyphire's hands were trembling to contain the force he was holding at bay within them. He had always kept an iron fist on the power that grew within him. He had had little wish to become a wretched sorcerer, and had done his best to hide his abilities. But the stress and fear and adrenaline had brought them roaring to a head once more, and it was once again too late to turn back.  
"Don't make me use this," he whispered. In the silence between them, his soft shaking in his voice betrayed his emotions. "Please don't make me use this."  
"You idiot!" Weylyn hissed. "Are you not the captain of your own ship? Do you have any *idea* how much gunpowder is kept down here? You would blow us all into eternity, boy. Do not be stupid." Weylyn's mind was reeling. The young man was obviously more frightened than he was letting on, and might fly off the handle in any moment and blow them all to smithereens. He had to do something, and fast. He was much too handsome to die now.  
Weylyn moved like lightening. Quick as snake strike, he leapt forward, intent on finally ending this foolish game. They had been playing it for far too long anyway. Unfortunately, Zyphire's pain and fear made him faster. As Weylyn crouched and struck at him, he released the full force of the energy he had been holding back with a cry, and an enormous spinning ball of fire leapt from his fingers.  
Weylyn rolled on his shoulder to avoid the acrid heat of Zyphire's attack, landing in a heap on a pile of loose lumber. Like a man in a dream, he saw the fireball spin slowly and inexorably towards the barrels of supplies, and eventually the neatly stacked kegs of powder. With a horrific crash, the fire and wood and powder came together in a dreadful expanding conflagration. And Weylyn's scream was lost in the terrible roar of smoke, fire, and wind. 


	3. The Patchwork God

***** Author's Note: Hello again, and welcome to part three. Just a quick note here concerning Olidammara. I'm a relative newbie where D&D is concerned, so I described the god of rogues as I, personally, have always seen him. If this is glaringly incorrect, I really do apologize. As it is, my own imagination was my only reference.  
  
Author's Note Part II: To the people who read this right after I posted it: Reading over chapter 3 after I posted it today, I decided that I really wasn't happy with my explanation of why exactly Oli was so upset with Weylyn. I felt like I was making too much of a stretch there, so I altered it pretty drastically. If you don't want to bother reading the whole thing again, the only part I really changed was the main body of conversation between the two. I hope it's a little better this time around. (  
  
Peace. ~EC ******  
  
The sky was exploding. One thousand thousand minute flashes of light broke apart and came together and broke apart again in dazzling flecks of white and gold and blue. The world was shifting. It dipped and spun sickeningly, twisting away rhythmically into endless bursts of darkness, light, darkness, light.  
In the heavy pressing silence, a figure hung motionless and suspended. His eyes were closed as if in dreaming. His black hair floated wildly about his fair face. Slowly and delicately he began to sink, down into the deep blackness. The pale dream of sunlight glinted down on him, lighting his white face one last time with the green glow of the sea.  
Weylyn, floating on the edge of consciousness, felt himself falling. He couldn't breath. This worried him slightly, but he was so tired, in so much pain, it hardly seemed to be worth bothering about. As the last trailing bubbles escaped his lips, he gave in to the inevitable comforting darkness.  
And yet, something tugged naggingly at the back of his mind. It was almost a tickling-- the whisper of a thought, or a voice or . . . Exactly what, he didn't know, but it got his attention enough to pull him back from his abyss momentarily. The tickling grew more insistent, and Weylyn foggily tried to pull the fuzzy bits of his brain together into coherence. Yes. He could hear it now. It *was* a voice. A voice that currently seemed to be laughing at him.  
"Not yet little one," it whispered. "Not yet."  
Weylyn's eyes snapped open as the sea became suddenly violent. A dull roaring grew in his ears as a sudden powerful current surged beneath and around him and, slamming powerfully into his back, began to bear his body upwards. The water rushed over him painfully fast, and he was forced to shut his eyes against the blinding flashes of light and the power of the water catapulting him upwards.  
He was far below the surface, and the urgent squeezing in his chest was beginning to remind him just how long he had been without air. Just as he was beginning to wish his lungs would explode and get it over with, however, his body broke the surface in a dazzling spray of foam and water.  
Gasping, choking, and half conscious, Weylyn floundered drunkenly around in the tossing waves. All around him, the charred, and in some cases still-burning, wreckage of the two once proud ships was bobbing gently on the tossing waves. Gathering the last shredded bits of strength he possessed, Weylyn pulled himself up onto the largest piece of flotsam he could find, and clung there like a half-drowned rat. He started trying to pull air into his ravaged lungs, but succeeded only in retching miserably over the side of his tiny raft. After ridding his guts of what seemed like far more seawater than anyone could possibly swallow, he closed his eyes and laid his bruised and aching face against the soft, damp wood. He sighed softly. And this had started out such a nice day.  
"Serves you right, really."  
The voice came so suddenly out of the silence that Weylyn attempted to leap backward and managed to dunk himself once again into the dark water. Sputtering incoherently, he surfaced and grabbed onto his little raft before it floated away. Pulling himself aboard, he looked around wildly for the speaker. He wasn't too difficult to locate.  
There, sitting smugly cross-legged on the opposite side of the wreckage he clung to, was a little figure grinning infuriatingly at Weylyn's soaked form. He was small, and dressed in an oversized jerkin and breeches that seemed to be made entirely from different colored tatters and patches. Strung about his odd costume randomly were flashing medallions and bright little charms. He wore no shoes, and oddly enough, he seemed completely dry. How he had managed to climb onto the floating piece of wreckage without drenching himself was more than Weylyn's aching brain felt like dealing with at the moment. His face . . . His face was giving Weylyn a headache. It kept . . . shifting around. One minute it was merry, another moment somber, another moment angry. Red haired, then blonde, then brown, then raven black. The features and expressions molded and shifted continually in a sickening blur. Weylyn blanched at the sight, feeling the bile rise again in the back of his throat. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead down into the wet wood.  
"Can you please stop doing that?" he moaned softly. The odd figure across from him rolled his eyes dramatically.  
"Seasick are you? Some vicious pirate. Feh."  
Weylyn cracked one eye open at him. He attempted an icy glare, thought better of it, and closed his eyes again with a soft whimper. The figure sighed loudly.  
"I suppose if this conversation is to go anywhere, I'll have to cater to your pleadings for the time being." The air shimmered slightly, and the figure's face slowly stopped its mad spinning. The features it resolved into were sharp and angular beneath two diamond blue eyes that shone with something better left to itself. His hair settled at a rusty fox red that ran down past his shoulders, tied back at the nape of his neck with a strap of leather. He blew an errant strand out of his face and leaned over to poke Weylyn's sodden shoulder.  
"Alright, you can look now."  
He settled back, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ". . . you big infant," under his breath.  
Weylyn half-heartedly opened his eyes, taking in the strange little man before him. "I don't suppose," he grunted "That I'm lucky enough for you to be a hallucination?" The little man shook his head merrily.  
"I'm afraid I'm as real as you are, boy." Those frightening diamond eyes twinkled dangerously. "Perhaps even more so." Weylyn sighed resignedly, and turned his head to gaze at the odd little figure.  
"I thought so. So it only remains to ask just who exactly the hell you are, and why you couldn't leave me to die in relative peace. I'm assuming," he quirked an eyebrow "That I do have you to thank for that."  
The odd man smiled crazily at him. "It was my doing, yes. But, as to whether or not you'll thank me for it. . . Well, that remains to be seen." He added a cackling laugh to the smile and leapt suddenly to his feet with a small flourish. "My name," he intoned rather too dramatically for Weylyn's taste "Is Olidammara; prankster, lover, rogue, and ne'er-do-well." He bowed and gave Weylyn a sharp toothed smile. "At no one's service but my own. Doubtless you've heard of me."  
Weylyn lifted his head to stare briefly at the self-proclaimed god before him. Now this, he really did not need at the moment. He had enough problems without odd little men in odd little clothes claiming to be odd little deities. He banged his head against the wreck a few times.  
"And I am a high priestess of the Drow. Pleased to meet you. . ."  
Whatever the rest of Weylyn's remark was, he never got to give it. In an instant he felt an invisible but incredibly powerful force wrap itself around his elbows and drag him head first over the side of the wreckage and into the water. Helpless, he was held a few feet below the surface, kicking madly in the grip of something he couldn't see or fight until white spots began to dance before his eyes.  
As suddenly as it had happened, however, it was over. The force didn't release its grip on him, but it did push him to the surface where he spat and cursed, damply and ineffectively. With his arms pinned to his sides, it took him a few moments to shake the long, clinging strands of hair out of his face enough to see. When he did though, the first thing that came into his vision was Olidammara, sitting on his haunches with his arms folded on the edge of the wreckage.  
"Are you prepared to take me seriously now? I'm perfectly willing to teach you that particular lesson all day, you little sea whelp, if that's how long it takes." He sniffed airily. "Show some respect, if you please." Weylyn only growled at him sullenly from his watery prison. "Now," he crossed his legs and sat comfortably facing Weylyn. "We have some business to discuss, you and I."  
"What dealings could possibly lie between us?" Spat Weylyn. "Even if you are who you claim to be; I am no rogue. No sneak about locksmith. I am a fighter, and have asked no boons of you that seek repayment." Olidammara raised an eyebrow, and Weylyn found himself with a mouthful of seawater as he was jerked under the waves yet again.  
"Respect," he said, grinning that infuriating grin again as Weylyn surfaced. "Our business," he said, "Concerns the ship that you and your bloodthirsty crew have just blown up. And don't even think about trying to tell me it wasn't your fault," he snapped as Weylyn opened his mouth to protest.  
"On this ship, which you have so wantonly destroyed, there was a passenger." Olidammara stopped to rub the back of his neck reflectively. "Alright. . . a stowaway. The point is he happened to be one of my followers. A cleric, whom I happened to be rather attached to." He shrugged. "Admittedly, the boy was a bit of a butterfingers, but his heart was really in the right place. And, I can tell you, my dear sir," he paused to glare at Weylyn. "I am not at all pleased at having him so prematurely removed from my service."  
Weylyn gazed at Olidammara dispassionately. "And?" he said. "I fail to see exactly what this has to do with me. If your bungling cleric was stupid enough to get himself killed, that blame can hardly be laid on my shoulders." He laughed shortly. "I would, in fact, think you would be happy that I rid you of such an incompetent lackey. I do not see how this concerns me."  
Olidammara didn't lose his mocking smile, but his eyes were attempting to gouge holes in Weylyn's face.  
"Oh no, my dear boy," he said softly. "You owe me one very important thing. A life. I have lost a cleric; one whom I both liked and needed. Followers don't come cheap, Weylyn, and I mean to exact my price from you." He laughed. "Don't worry, my dear boy. I don't mean in the literal sense. I merely mean that I have decided that *you* will fill the shoes, so to speak, of my recently departed disciple."  
Weylyn shook his head in disbelief and irritation.  
"Why, exactly, in the name of blood and black steel have you decided it has to be me?"  
Olidammara smiled crookedly.  
"You," he leaned forward and grabbed Weylyn by the string of shark teeth around his neck. "Are a thief. You are an overzealously violent thief with no style or flair and the subtlety of a rhinoceros, but you are a thief nonetheless, and as such, fall under *my* domain. You will, therefore, make an ideal follower. Don't try to deny it." He glared wildly as Weylyn seemed about to refute this, causing the pirate to close his mouth with an audible snap.  
Olidammara sighed theatrically. "Just look at you," he said. "You float there, completely in my power, soaked to the bone, covered in bruises, half burnt and still spitting at me like a cornered rat. Snarl at me all you want, Blackwolf. I will have my life for a life, and I will have it from *you*. You have robbed me of one of my followers, and in return you yourself must carry on the work that he so unfortunately was unable to continue." Olidammara turned his back and started to pace the small piece of wreckage nonchalantly, studiously ignoring the incoherent outraged muttering coming from Weylyn. "There is, of course, one minor problem." He turned suddenly to face Weylyn. "I've been watching you for some time now Blackwolf. I have, in fact, had my eye on you ever since you showed a predilection for things that don't belong to you. You pillage, you burn, you murder and steal, and for what? For the harper's songs? For the drunken revelry after a night of bloodshed? For the scores of women falling at your feet? No," he glared contemptuously at Weylyn. "Not *you*. You rarely partake in the ale soaked festivities of your crew, you killed the last three bards who even dared to *mention* songs about you, and I can't even *count* how long it's been since you've bedded a nice wench." He leaned over and poked Weylyn roughly in the chest to cover the young pirate's attempt at outraged denial.  
"You are far too serious. And if there is one thing I cannot stand from those who follow in my path, it's a wet blanket." He laughed. "No pun intended."  
Olidammara gestured deftly, and the invisible force once again plucked Weylyn from the water and dumped him unceremoniously on the floating wreckage. Weylyn shivered miserably, pressing his fingers against his eyes to fight off the pounding headache that was starting to assert itself behind them.  
"With any luck," he whispered. "I'll wake up on the firm deck of my own ship to find that this has all been an odd, rum flavored dream." He sighed. "But, as my luck apparently hasn't been the best lately, I suppose I'm just going to have to play along for now, aren't I?" He let his body fall forward with a soft thunk onto the damp, rocking wood. Opening one eye, he gazed wearily at Olidammara. "What exactly is it you want?"  
Olidammara jumped up, rubbing his hands together and cackling delightedly. He folded his long, elegant fingers under his nose and stared over the tips of them at Weylyn's sodden prone form.  
"What I want from you, Blackwolf, is no easy thing. It is both a quest, and a punishment for robbing me of one of my precious few clerics." He folded his arms and stood tall and stiff; a little colorful judge standing before his accused. "In addition to living life according to my teachings, your task, Weylyn Blackwolf, your holy charge given by me, and not to be ignored unless you wish upon yourself a very painful and, if I have anything to do with it, embarrassing death, is to turn over a proverbial new leaf."  
Weylyn opened his other eye, the deep green was still clouded, but Olidammara certainly had his attention now.  
"You want me to what?"  
The patchwork god leaned close to Weylyn, smiling in a way that a more suspicious person would have called slightly malicious. He propped his chin on his hand jauntily.  
"It's quite simple, Weylyn. You are going to become one of my devoted followers. I have decided, however, that you are obviously not doing enough honor to the grand tradition of hedonism as a thief and a villain. I really can't allow my followers to be so uptight. I told you, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a glorified bandit with a stick up his arse. And therefore, so you will properly pay homage to the triple goddess of wine, women and song, I hereby strip you of your evil ways. You aren't properly appreciating the finer points of life as a villain; let's see what you can do as a hero."  
"WHAT?!" Weylyn leapt up and wobbled uncertainly on the gently bobbing raft. He stood gaping at the smug little god before him, but Olidammara only raised an eyebrow at him. "You can't possibly be serious. I am Weylyn Blackwolf. Terror of the Ten Seas, the Black Daemon, the Laughing Blade. . ." He trailed off slowly as Olidammara just continued staring at him in amused silence. Weylyn shook his head angrily.  
"I am no man's hero. I am a corsair. I am a black hearted shadow to be feared, not carted around like some puffed up jackdaw." He glowered fiercely. "The only men who sing of my deeds do so with hushed voices in dark corners. Or they get their tongues cut out."  
Weylyn started as he felt the pressure of Olidammara's power wrapping around his elbows once more. He glared at the rogue, but the strange little god seemed intent on cleaning his fingernails. He spoke finally, slowly and deliberately enunciating his words as he tightened the band of power around Weylyn.  
"I don't remember giving you any sort of choice in this matter, my dear boy." He walked slowly over to where Weylyn stood rooted helpless to the spot. He gazed intently at the dripping pirate for a moment, and his voice was as cold as his diamond eyes. "Run from it as you will, Weylyn, from this day forward, your quest and your curse is to live a glorious life, to uphold the weak, stand against tyranny and cruelty, and shine as a golden example of good for all those around you. Until," he smiled crazily. "Until you are even more famous for your deeds of good and kindness than you are for your cruelty."  
Weylyn grit his teeth as he struggled to breathe against the invisible force holding him still.  
"Let me go, Olidammara." He spat. "I am not one of your lackeys. And I would rather drown myself now and get it over with than degrade myself by becoming a slack faced cleric."  
"A cleric?" hooted Olidammara. "A cleric? What deity in their right mind would be stupid enough to give *you* divine powers, boy?" He laughed loudly and shook the loose foxy hairs from his eyes. "No, my lad, I'm afraid you will have to rely on your wits and your strength alone." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Alright, on second thought, perhaps on your strength alone."  
He slapped Weylyn's shoulder with a short laugh and turned to face the bright blue of the sea.  
"Well, my boy, I'm afraid I must leave you now. Can't hold your hand the whole time now, can I?" Weylyn opened his mouth angrily, but Olidammara turned to him quick as a cat, something frighteningly close to anger burning behind his eyes.  
"It is never very wise, Weylyn, to anger a god, even one as charming and gentle mannered as myself. Make no mistake Blackwolf, I will be watching your progress *very* closely."  
He struck out like lightening, grabbing Weylyn's right arm in a vice- like grip. The young pirate sucked in his breath sharply as a stab of burning pain shot up his arm from where the god's hand held him. The strange pain blossomed and spread, searing through him and within him until his whole world was reduced to the blinding white agony pulsing through him.  
Through the hazy clouds that seemed to coat all his senses, Weylyn heard Olidammara whisper in his ear.  
"You are marked as mine now, boy. Try not to disappoint me." Weylyn gave a small cry as the burning pain boiled past his breaking point, and his world went finally and soothingly black.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
His entire body was on fire. His face was pressed deep into some black nameless grit while the cold waves lapped softly against his legs. Weylyn opened his eyes slowly and wished he hadn't. The blinding sun flashing against the white sand sent nauseating waves of pain deep into his weary brain. Spitting out small quantities of sand, he sat up slowly, trying to ease some of the ache out of his protesting muscles.  
He shook his head softly, trying to clear the clouds away that obscured his memory. The battle, the fight with the captain, the shipwreck. . . Weylyn paused. Olidammara. He had had that strange crazed dream about meeting the weird little god of rogues while floating around half dead in the middle of the ocean. Weylyn laughed softly at his own stupidity as he started brushing the sand from his shoulders. A quest from Olidammara. Really, he should be ashamed that he had even entertained the thought that anything that happened could possibly be real. . .  
Weylyn paused suddenly. His shirt had been lost sometime before he washed up on shore. As he brushed the clinging white sand from his shoulders, a soft thrill of pain blossomed as his fingers brushed over his right bicep. Weylyn closed his eyes for a moment, and then slowly turned his arm so he could see it more clearly.  
For a number of years, the black tattoo on Weylyn's right bicep had stood alone and proud. It was a wolf's head, pitch black and snarling across the scarred muscle of Weylyn's arm. Not, however, any longer.  
Weylyn gazed at the tattoo on his arm for quite some time. After awhile, he dropped his head into his hands, and sunk to the soft white sand in a miserable ball of disbelief. He stayed there, rocking himself slowly on the beach for hours. And the sun rose high into the sky and set again, shining softly on a black wolf's head tattoo that now sported a strange addition. On one side of the wolf, a mask of sorrow, on the other, a mask of mirth. The mark of possession of Olidammara, who even now was laughing. 


	4. In Which a Pirate Makes a Friend

** Author's Note: Yes, the story has been moving a little slow lately, and I'm afraid this chapter is no different. I'll try to fix that soon. WotC owns everything Dungeons and Dragons related. I own nothing of consequence. I am in debt up to my ears, and will be probably for the rest of my natural life. The song Weylyn sings is called "Pirate's Life." It was written by Gregg Csikos and can be found on The Corsair's 'Purple Album'. Weylyn belongs to me. General situation debt to the campaigns of my good friends Tim and Jen, I love you both and promise I will bring more cookies next time. Ellywick belongs to Jo, who is welcome to her. ~EC **  
  
Somewhere, on a beach of dazzling white sand glowing brightly under an even more dazzling yellow sun, a breeze leaped up. It tripped laughingly over the white tops of the tiny breakers that ran ceaselessly to shore and ruffled the pearly grey wings of seagulls and gannets and the darker wings of a single, lonely hawk that circled lazily almost out of sight. It ran along the shore and sent minute whirlwinds of sand skittering in all directions before tossing them aside and racing off again. It paused a moment to lift the golden hair of a little lone traveler, blowing it in all directions and making her laugh into the bright blue of the sky and the sweet tang of the sea wind.  
She was dressed simply. A well worn, cloak was wrapped around her shoulders and currently whipping about in the playful wind. Her bodice was bright blue and laced up tightly over a puffy chemise that may once have been white. The summer sun glinted almost blindingly over at least a dozen bangles strung loosely about her delicate wrists. Her wild blonde hair was pulled back half-hazardly behind her severely pointed ears and held there with a dubiously knotted strap of leather. She swung a walking stick jauntily and hummed to herself whatever small nothings that came to mind as she strolled down the soft sands.  
The day was full of endless shining possibilities. She was alone and free as the sea air, young and strong and ready to face whatever today had to throw at her. So far, all it seemed to have to throw at her was pleasant. She laughed. Adventuring wasn't nearly as bad as some of the more grumpy people made it out to be.  
Suddenly, a faint sound caught her ears, and she paused mid stride. The wailing gulls and the breeze tore it away, though, and though she listened for a few moments she could not catch it again. She shrugged and continued on her walk, only to stop again as the soft strains came to her ears once more. She paused and listened hard, raising her eyebrows in surprise. There definitely was something there. And, what's more, she almost thought she could hear the faint traces of words.  
Giving in to her ever present curiosity, the girl tilted her head to better catch the sound and started following it across the wide stretch of beach. As she walked farther, the noise became clearer with every step. She eventually neared a small grouping of carelessly waving palm trees, and her eyes widened slightly as she heard the unmistakable sound of someone singing in an enthusiastic baritone.  
  
".well, it's wonderful livin' the life of a pirate  
With the freedom to take what we can.  
And we'll sail the world over a-searchin' for plunder  
Not fearin' to face any man."  
  
She scrabbled closer to the knot of trees, her curiosity nearly unbearable. The voice was rich and clear, but seemed to waver and trip uncertainly at some points. The invisible singer also seemed to have trouble remembering the words occasionally and would hum quietly before picking up again with renewed gusto.  
  
".we call no man our master, no lord and no king.  
Not long in one place do we stay."  
  
Nearly there.nearly there. She crept forward, silent as a little weasel and gripping her staff tightly. Better safe than sorry. She didn't care how nice of a voice this invisible person had. People could be just downright *mean* sometimes.  
  
".and this world is for those  
who can grab it and hold it  
Possession's the law of the day."  
  
Reaching the copse of palms, finally, the girl peeked cautiously through the branches of trees and beach scrub to get a glimpse of the singer. There, leaning wearily against the trunk of a bent palm and clutching a half filled bottle, sat a young man. His long black hair was in disarray and full of sand. His features were angular and fair enough that the girl nearly pegged him as an elf, but soft enough that she wasn't quite so sure after a little more careful observation.  
Her eyes widened sympathetically, as she noticed that he also seemed to have had his shirt stolen, and was covered from navel to eyebrows in bruises and nasty looking cuts. He seemed oblivious to these, however, as he continued belting his song to the heavens, finishing with a flourish and raising the half empty bottle in salute before draining a large quantity of its contents.  
As she watched, the young man swirled the last dregs of amber liquid within the bottle halfheartedly, and then with a sudden burst of wild energy heaved the bottle with a broken angry cry into the gently sparkling sea. His shoulders heaved softly as he stood there; swaying slightly and watching the bottle become a speck against the blue horizon. The girl tilted her head slightly, as she thought she heard him half singing to the silent sea.  
"Drink up, me hearties, yo ho. . ."  
With that, he sank slowly to his knees, his forehead pressed against the wet sand. His shoulders were shaking uncontrollably, though the girl heard no sound escape from his lips. She chewed her lip apprehensively, her caution battling heavily with her naturally big heart. It was true that he was a stranger, and a dangerous looking one to boot, but. . . Well. . . She couldn't leave anyone alone when they were *crying*. No matter how scary looking they were.  
She tiptoed silently up behind him, the quiet sounds of his sorrow reaching her ears as she did so. Tentatively, she reached a small hand forward to lay it gently on his back.  
"Hey. . ." she whispered. "Hey. . . Are you alright?"  
Faster than her eyes could register, the stranger whirled around and grabbed her wrist in a death grip, and she found herself staring into a pair of green eyes that were less than entirely sane. She bit back a yell of terror; so all that escaped her lips was a small frightened squeak.  
The half-crazed young man lifted her to eye level, letting her feet dangle several feet above the sand. He eyed her with a dispassionate sneer warring with the confusion and sadness in his eyes before tossing her roughly to the ground.  
"A gnome." He snorted derisively. "Leave me in peace, Toadstool; I haven't the patience right now for the inane jabberings of little people."  
The little gnome drew herself to her full height and glared icily up at Weylyn. "My name, Longshanks, is Ellywick. NOT Toadstool, or Tiny, or Short Stuff. And I'll have you know that it isn't considered wise to call powerful wizards mean names." She stuck out her tongue cheekily. "I was *going* to ask if you needed any help, but now I'm not so sure I won't just turn you into a spotted toad and be done with it. You. . .you. . . you poncey elf git!" She sniffed haughtily and turned her back to him.  
With a half growl, Weylyn lunged for the dagger in his boot, but was brought up short by the sudden and familiar stab of blinding agony burning through the tattoo on his arm. Weylyn stumbled to his knees, gritting his teeth as the pain lanced down his arm and across his chest, making it difficult to breath. Through the haze permeating his thinking, Olidammara's mocking voice rang lightly through his brain.  
"I'm only going to tell you this once, Weylyn, so listen well. I don't believe pulling knives on innocent little girls is exactly conducive to your newfound heroic tendencies. I'm not going to tolerate villainy on your behalf anymore so you had best *watch it*."  
As suddenly as it had come, the pain and the voice left him, and Weylyn slumped to the ground with a strangled cry, clutching at his arm. Ellywick looked on, her eyes huge. Rushing over as he fell, she leaned over his still form, biting her lip. She poked him softly in the shoulder, wincing as his eyes partially opened. Trying to swallow her hesitation, the little gnome scooted closer.  
"I can heal you, you know. If you like." She said shyly.  
Weylyn just closed his eyes tiredly and nodded his head. Ellywick smiled happily and, cracking her knuckles theatrically, placed her hands on either side of his face, scrunching up her brows in concentration. As Ellywick began mumbling softly to herself, a bright blue haze crept across Weylyn's vision. He arched his back as the raw magic coursed through his body like liquid fire, forcing his wounds to close. It was not an altogether pleasant experience.  
"There!" She chirped brightly. "All better!"  
Weylyn sat up stiffly, rubbing his eyelids. "That," he sighed softly, "Is entirely a matter of opinion." The two sat in separate silence for awhile, watching the hissing sea as Weylyn scratched reflectively at his newly formed scars. Ellywick's irrepressible nature eventually won over, however, and she scooted closer to Weylyn once again.  
"My name's Ellywick. Oh!" she said. "I already told you that, didn't I?" She looked at her hands, feeling her ears turn pink. "Well, it is. Ellywick, that is. What's yours?" she finished in a flustered rush.  
Weylyn turned his head to glance wearily at the gnome. Finally he shrugged. Now was as good a time as any to start being. . . nice. He shuddered.  
"My name is Weylyn," he said. "Weylyn Bla. . ." He paused. His name had gotten out in his years of piracy, and there was the added problem that there was probably a larger price on his head than he cared to think about. However harmless this air-headed little gnome seemed, he couldn't trust her not to turn him in for a little easy coin. Either way, he didn't want to scare her off just yet. Not until he had a little more information about where he had washed up. ". . .Ahh. . .just Weylyn. JUST Weylyn and nothing else," he finished hurriedly, mentally smacking his forehead at how obvious the lie sounded even to his own ears.  
"Oh," said Ellywick brightly. "That's a nice name." She scuffed her feet in the sand for a few moments, feeling slightly awkward. Finally, she burst out. "Why were you crying Weylyn?"  
Weylyn raised an eyebrow in her direction. "Nosy little thing, aren't you?" he snapped. She gulped embarrassedly, and he sighed, trying to swallow his temper.** Nice. I have to be nice. Gallant. Heroic.** He gazed off into the horizon, at the sky that was beginning to glow gold and crimson as the sun started its slow decent. He didn't turn back to Ellywick as he answered her softly.  
"I was saying goodbye. . .Ellywick. I lost a lot of mates today," he buried his face in his hands. "And one very dear friend. The sea takes its price. Always." He sighed and turned away from her, laughing bitterly. "And it took everything from me today, up to, and including, my freedom."  
Ellywick's eyes grew huge in her little pointed face. "I'm sorry," she whispered.  
Weylyn barked a short laugh. "Yes. So am I." He dusted the sand from his breeches and his long black leather boots and started to stand. "Well, this little conversation has been really lovely, but I'm afraid I must be on my way. If you could point the way to the nearest town, my lady, I should be forever indebted."  
Ellywick scrambled to her feet. "Wait!" she called. "You can't go off by yourself, all alone! I'll come with you." She smiled hugely. "It'll be fun. You'll see."  
Weylyn gave her a blank stare. "Yes, well. You're a very nice little gnome person and all, and I like you very much but. . . Mmmmm, how do I put this? No." Not waiting for her reaction, he turned briskly on his heel and started walking in what he hoped was the direction for the nearest town.  
"Weylyyyyn!" Ellywick scampered after him, trying to match her petite strides to his long ones and practically bouncing with each step. "Please? Please please please? I'm lonely and you're lonely, and every good adventurer needs a wizard by their side. And I think all you really need to put that frowny face behind you is a big hug."  
Weylyn, whose jaw had become increasingly sore from gritting his teeth against this cheerful tirade, let out a strangled "Gack!" as Ellywick attached herself fondly to his leg, pitching him forward onto the sand. Now that he was down at her level, Ellywick wasted no time in relocating herself to his neck, half strangling him with affection before he managed to disentangle her.  
Finally pulling free, Weylyn took Ellywick none too gently by the shoulders and looked her square in the eyes with what he hoped was a cheerful and understanding expression. Unfortunately, it looked more like someone trying to swallow whole lemon slices.  
"Ellywick. Thank you. Really. But.. . .ahh. . ." He closed his eyes and rubbed fitfully at his temples. "I've known you for five minutes and you're already irritating the hell out of me. I don't think," he patted her shoulder, "teaming up is the best idea."  
Ellywick's big brown eyes filled up slowly with huge, wet tears. Plopping down on the sand in an inconsolable heap, she started sobbing in a long, high pitched wail.  
"You don't *like* meeeeee." The little gnome shuddered in despair, ignoring Weylyn's awkward and increasingly frantic attempts to get her to stop. He wasn't very good dealing with crying women, at least, not in ways that didn't involve back-handing them. Her cries reaching amazing ear- splitting climaxes before plunging down into low, heart breaking sobs. Weylyn finally threw up his arms in complete surrender.  
"Oh, for the sake of Pelor. . . Fine! You win!" Crouching down, he scooped up the still wailing gnome and slung her over his shoulder and started stomping loudly down the beach again.  
Ellywick's sobs soon changed into little sniffles and the odd hiccough. She squirmed lightly in his grasp and stared down at the constant motion of the heels of his boots. "What do you think you're doing?"  
Weylyn shifted her higher on his shoulder and tightened his lips. "You are a damsel. You are in distress. I am rescuing you. Got it?" He tried to turn his head so she could hear him better from her odd position. "It's heroic."  
Ellywick tried to squirm around to better face him. "You mean I can come with you? Really really? We can be partners?"  
Weylyn sighed resignedly against the headache that was starting to reassert itself. "Considering my peculiar circumstances, I don't think I have much of a choice. It isn't very," he grimaced "gallant to leave a lady alone and unprotected. Or at least, so I've heard. I'm afraid I'm stuck with you."  
Ellywick shrieked in delight. "You really won't regret this. A wizard's a very useful thing to have around, you know. And I'll cheer you up too, I promise! It'll be lots and lots of fun. . ." Chatting all the while, she moved around in Weylyn's arms until he was carrying her like a small child, one arm beneath her arms and one beneath her knees, with her head resting lightly on his shoulder.  
"Ahh. . . Ellywick?" Weylyn intoned lightly. "Here's an idea. How does walking on your own damn feet sound?"  
Ellywick only giggled. "Nope. I'm the damsel in distress. Have to be carried. You don't have a choice." She stuck her tongue out at him and fell into silver giggles again.  
Weylyn gave an exasperated sigh. "Just thought I'd check." He continued trudging northward, past the beaches and, according to Ellywick, towards the nearest town.  
Night began to fall swiftly in ribbons of lavender, gold and blue. Ellywick, soothed by the rocking motion of Weylyn's walk, snuggled her head into his shoulder and was soon dozing lightly. Lulled by her soft breathing and the song of the sea, Weylyn fought to suppress a small smile and, to his annoyance, lost. Gazing up at the young stars just showing their faces, he laughed quietly to them.  
"Hello, I don't think we've been introduced. My name is just Weylyn, and I. . . am a hero." 


	5. At the Sign of the Tipsy Dragon

** Author's Note: Hello again, everyone. Sorry this has taken awhile to get up, but with schoolwork (and avoiding schoolwork) and prepping for auditions and getting ready to pledge the theatre fraternity here. . . Well, it's been kind of insane. Anyhoo. . . This note is just to inform those of you who notice this kind of thing that I will no longer be using the Kaladeshian setting for this story, for a couple of reasons that should have been obvious to me. I blame lack of sleep. So, if you go back and re-read this, that's why all the city and country names will be changed. And Wolf. . . cross your legs. We'll get to Zan when Weylyn's good and ready for him. LOL. With that out of the way. . . on to the next adventure. Peace. ~EC **  
  
Weylyn was not in a good mood. That, in fact, may be a bit of an understatement. To start with, the last two days had not been exactly restful. Even if you didn't count the facts that his ship had blown up, he had nearly lost his life, and was forced into a. . . vomitously respectable calling by a half-crazed god, there was still the fact that he had now been subjected to an unbelievably cheerful tide of babblings coming from waist height for almost two solid days.  
". . .and then the *squirrels* came and it was all over from there. I like squirrels a lot usually. They're cute and fuzzy but these one's were just MEAN and they had big teeth like *this*. Do you like animals? I do. I'm glad it stopped raining finally. My boots were all wet and I HATE wet boots. Is that a rainbow there? I think rainbows are pretty. I made one once with magic, but it exploded and everyone around me got really mad especially 'cuz it made them all turn different shades of blue or green or. . ."  
Weylyn marched on in heroic silence, occasionally muttering a "How wonderful," or an "Mmmhmm. . ." To keep himself occupied, he concentrated on imagining creative ways to get Ellywick to shut up without actually getting himself in trouble with Olidammara.  
They had left the coast behind them some time ago, and were now trudging through the cool dappled shadows of a forest path. The bluebottles were humming lazily over the dry brown swaying grasses, and a soft breeze brought the smell of oak trees and fallen leaves and wildflowers dancing around them. Weylyn had cut himself a nice walking staff when they had finally stopped the night before, and he was idly swinging it at the drooping heads of Queen Anne's lace while he watched Ellywick racing around collecting flowers as they walked.  
It was all very pleasant indeed, but Weylyn was not a fan of dry land when it came right down to it. . . especially when it came to traveling across it for days on end. He preferred the solid feel of a deck beneath his feet to all this sore-footed marching about. He paused to tease a stone out of his boot. And he wouldn't say no to a hot dinner and a real bed right about now if anyone were to offer. That, however, didn't look too promising. Ellywick had promised him this morning that a town lay less than a day's march ahead of them. The day was growing late now, and though the road was well traveled he saw no other obvious signs of civilization and was beginning to worry that they were in for another night of sleeping in the dubious comfort of the roadside ditch.  
He sighed wearily, stretching the stiff muscles in his lean back with a yawn. The sun was beginning its downward path again The buzzing of bluebottles and hornets was slowly giving way to the wine of midges and the soft song of early crickets. Weylyn almost smiled in spite of himself. The quiet song of evening was peacefully settling all around him-cloaking the world in a sleepy hush of. . .  
Weylyn paused. Something wasn't right. The quiet of evening seemed to belay his fears, and yet. . . And yet. . . The answer hit him suddenly. It was *too* damn quiet. Ellywick's burbling chatter, the constant buzzing giving him migraines for the past two days, was conspicuously absent. There was no sound but that soft rustling of nature preparing for slumber. The silence was heavy and dead on Weylyn's ears. He felt the small hairs on the back of his neck start to rise.  
He peered around cautiously, his hand tightening on the smooth bark of his staff. He swallowed.  
"Ellywick?" he called softly. "Ellywick?" The little gnome was no where in sight. Weylyn was alone in the swiftly darkening forest. He turned in a slow circle, his steps as light and wary as a cat's. "Ellywick, I very much doubt that this is the proper time for games." The silence echoed back at him.  
All of a sudden, the air was filled with a skull-splitting shriek. Weylyn's heart jumped up through his throat and lodged itself between his ears, as a dark form slammed into his shoulders and knocked him off his feet. He struggled uselessly against the weight pressing him down to the forest loam, but the dark figure was hunched heavily on his shoulders and he could find no leverage. The heady scent of moss and soil invaded his senses as he was forced by the horrible relentless pressure from his unseen attacker deeper into the levels of decaying leaves.  
He struggled wildly, but gods above it was no use. He couldn't *move.* The forest floor filled his mouth and his vision and the heavy silence was pressing closer and he couldn't breathe couldn't breathe couldn't breathe. . . He felt an unexpected twinge through his stomach. Whatever this wretched thing was, it had probably already gotten Ellywick. He'd be damned if it was going to get him next. His hair and clothes filled with grit as one final time he gathered his strength to try to shake off the ruthless shadow slowly hugging the life from. . . Hugging?  
"Weylyn! There you are! I thought you'd run off from me but I guess it was really me who ran off from you huh? But I saw some daisies and a purple loosestrife and even some lobelia all the way out here and look! Wild strawberries!"  
Weylyn paused for a moment, his face still buried in leaf mulch. For a minute, the only sound was the rapid pounding of his heart as his brain tried to convince it to slow down a little and take a breather. Through the layer of soil and plant detritus, came the sound of a soft resigned sigh.  
"Ellywick."  
Ellywick rolled her eyes and tossed her golden hair over her shoulder, trying to pull the bits of dead leaves out.  
"Of course, silly. Who else?"  
Weylyn raised his head and turned on his back to face the bubbly little gnome.  
"With you around, I'd rather not speculate."  
The two glared levelly at each other for a few minutes, Weylyn propped on his elbows and Ellywick sitting on his stomach. The silence hung heavily between the two contesting wills. Minutes passed quietly. Slowly and deliberately, Ellywick leaned forward and somberly tucked a flower behind Weylyn's ear. She exploded into giggles. "This one's for you," she said. "It's a primrose. They're really rare this late in summer. There. You look a proper gentleman now."  
Weylyn looked to the heavens dramatically. "A proper gentleman who is going to be spending tonight in a ditch. Lovely. Where is this town you spoke so confidently about this morning, O dearest Ellywick?" He got up slowly, dumping Ellywick onto the path and dusting the soil off of himself. "I'm going to pray that it wasn't a glittery figment of your frilly imagination."  
Ellywick rolled her eyes and scrambled acrobatically up Weylyn's back until she was perched cockily on his shoulders. "Chh. . . No need to be so grumpy, Weylyn. It's right over the next hill there. Can't you see the lantern lights glowing?"  
He squinted ahead. Now that she mentioned it, there *did* seem to be a soft, almost indistinguishable light coming from over the next rise. Ah. Civilization at last. The faint squealing of discontent pigs came floating towards them on the soft air. How charming.  
Weylyn reached up to untie the scarlet band holding his hair back. Shifting Ellywick's weight around, he managed to wrap the fabric around his arm enough to suitably cover his tattoo, at least until he could purchase a new shirt. He smiled to himself grimly. No point in leaving *that* particular mark out in the open. Bounty hunters could be right bastards, and he didn't care *how* far he was from the sea-there was no point in taking stupid chances.  
Ellywick hadn't noticed, and kept up her bright commentary on the bright gold of the dying sky, the sweet smell of the evening, fuzzy animals, and how much she'd like to braid Weylyn's "pretty black hair", as he marched wearily towards the faint gleam over the horizon.  
* * * * * * *  
* *  
  
The sun was still hanging low in the sky, and the town gates had not yet closed for the coming night. Weylyn and Ellywick entered gratefully, working their footsore way down the rutted streets and past the suspicious stares of the townsfolk.  
Weylyn knelt down to Ellywick's level after she had jumped lightly from his shoulders, and attempted to restrain her from running off to explore all the interesting sights of the little city.  
"Ellywick. Ellywick! Try to concentrate for two moments please. Stop. . . Stop it." He struggled to maintain his grip on the hopelessly excited gnome as she bounced around. "Stop staring at people!" he hissed. He grabbed her by both shoulders and looked at her sternly. "Listen. I need to try and purchase some supplies before the shops close for the evening. YOU need to go and get some rooms for us. Ask around for the best inn in this wretched little town, and please *try* not to get distracted by anything shiny." He placed a hand over her mouth to stifle her attempt at outraged denial. "Just do it. Here." He reached over and carefully unhooked the black leather armband around his left bicep, grimacing slightly. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship: good quality leather with the silhouette of a wolf tooled expertly into the surface, studded with silver and with tiny emeralds set in place of the wolf's eyes. He sighed softly with regret. "This should more than cover the cost." He stood up and gave her a swat on the rear. "Quick now, O mighty wizard. And remember what I said about shiny things!"  
Weylyn laughed as Ellywick stomped off-glowering darkly and rubbing her behind.  
Some time later, Weylyn pushed open the stout oak door of The Tipsy Dragon, feeling much more suitably dressed. The black breeches and long leather boots he kept, but he had acquired a fine linen shirt that flared very satisfactorily from the shoulders and a high quality woolen cloak of a deep moss green that the sales lady had assured him really brought out his eyes. He ran his hands subconsciously over the plain but fine material, slowly scanning the loud and oily lit common room for signs of his companion.  
The common room was packed and it was difficult to find the tiny figure of Ellywick. Weylyn pursed his lips in slight irritation. No, she wasn't there that he could see. Just the usual rabble of locals and passing merchants and adventurers that gather in any large alehouse you'd find on the road. He glanced with interest around the room, noting a pack of one, two. . . thirteen dwarves sitting in one corner hunched greedily over a soiled map, two hairy barbarians making impressed noises over each other's tattoos, and an obviously inebriated wizard using complex incantations to subtly tie his comatose companions bootlaces together. Trying to maneuver past the jostling patrons and loaded tables, Weylyn felt himself back into something that was obviously covered in chain maille.  
"Pardon me sirrrrr. . .errr. . ." His voice trailed off as he turned and found himself staring into the rather impressive bosoms of a rather pissed off woman in black. She gripped at the hilt of her falchion and gave him a haughty stare before turning back to her heated argument with the dark haired elf sitting across from her. Next to the elf, a young human woman sat plunking idly at a lute, occasionally rolling her eyes at whatever the scary woman was saying and swapping jokes with the armored knight next to her. At least, Weylyn *thought* they might be jokes; he couldn't understand a word the knight was saying. He shrugged. *Foreigners probably.*  
Weylyn shook his head. This was hopeless. He stumbled over to a table near the wall and sat down. Ellywick would find him eventually if she didn't get trampled in this mob. A harried looking serving girl took his order, and he sat back in the rough chair, nursing the foamy mug of ale. He closed his eyes and rubbed them tiredly.  
They snapped open suddenly as a flapping feathery mass careened into Weylyn's skull. The mass of feathers resolved itself into the shape of a crow, which caught its balance finally and perched contentedly on Weylyn's head, ruffling its feathers. Weylyn looked up to see two beady little black eyes staring into his. He snarled and took a swipe at the bird.  
"Oh piss off to hell, you stupid little bastard."  
If it is possible for a look of pained consternation to cross a bird's face, this is exactly what happened. The crow seemed to struggle with itself for a moment, but apparently lost its inner battle as it screeched:  
"Bastard! Bastardbastardbastard! Ahhhhh. . . shit." It flopped onto the table and stared up at Weylyn reproachfully. "Now look what you made me say." It sighed. "I'm going to get it for this one." The crow flapped awkwardly off, and Weylyn sat at the table blinking. Had he really just been cussed out by a bird? He took a suspicious look at the mug of ale in front of him and subtly pushed it aside.  
Weylyn started as Ellywick abruptly materialized and plunked herself down beside him.  
"Big crowd isn't it?" she said. "I almost got stepped on! Twice! And that scary lady in the chain maille didn't even *apologize*!" She snorted with indignation.  
Weylyn grunted noncommittally, not really listening to the gripes of his companion. His attention was drawn instead to the slight commotion beginning at the bar. The buxom innkeeper was arguing loudly with one of the strangest men Weylyn had ever seen.  
The man's sharp features and light build clicked "elf" in Weylyn's brain, but there was also something distinctly "un-elven" about him. And yet. . .there was no visible trace of the human ancestry that would label him a half-blood. His coloring was also odd. His skin was a dusky charcoal color that contrasted sharply with his long white hair done up neatly in dozens of braids. He was impeccably dressed in what were undeniably rich silks, satins and leathers and one of the oddest cloaks Weylyn had ever clapped eyes on, and was leaning insolently against the dingy soiled counter with a distinct air of open disgust. He was surrounded by five or six dirty men dressed in blacks and dark greens. There was a distinct air of trouble about their hooded faces, though they stood silent as stone, letting their leader speak. His replies to the shouts of the landlady were quiet and deliberate, but seemed to have no affect on the irate woman.  
"I've told yew twenny times if I've told yew once! I runs a respectable establishment here, and your brutes will kindly keep their 'ands off my girls. If you can't get that into their thick skulls, you can escort yerselfs out."  
A nearby customer, far into his cups, lurched unsteadily to his feet, placing himself between the elf and the landlady.  
"You heard Mistress Bimble," he slurred. "I'll show you gentlemen out." He raised his hand and placed it forcefully on the elf's shoulder.  
With the tiniest of perceptible nods from his dark leader, one of the thugs slammed a meaty fist straight into the face of the drunk. The man's head snapped back with a sickening crack and he slumped bonelessly to the floor, dark blood spilling from his ruined nose. There was a horrible split second of silence. And then with a sudden roar, the bar broke into a battlefield as a mass of the patrons surged against the thugs and their strange leader.  
The muffled groans, shouts and sounds of breaking glass rang through the air mixed in with the outraged screams of the landlady. Weylyn lifted up his mug just in time to stop the contents from spilling everywhere as a large hairy man was thrown bodily into his table, splitting it in half. Ellywick gave a frightened squeak, and Weylyn turned to her with a sardonic grin.  
"I rather believe that this establishment has lost its charm for me." He ducked swiftly as a rogue bottle came flying through the air and smashed into the wall behind his head. "Perhaps we had best find more gentile quarters, my lady."  
Ellywick crinkled up her nose at him. "Weylyn, stop blowing hot air and GET US OUT OF HERE!"  
Rolling his eyes, Weylyn grabbed Ellywick and roughly threw her over a shoulder. "As my lady commands," he said. "And you had best see you don't get anything on my new cloak while you're up there."  
Like a participant in a bizarre and bloody game of tag, Weylyn danced his way across the seemingly endless floor of the common room, dodging flying fists, flying bottles, and a few flying insults that made him reach up to cover Ellywick's ears. Ducking away from a murderously swung chair leg, Weylyn laughed loudly. . .and ran straight into the barrel chest of the largest of the dark elf's thugs.  
The hulking thug gave a deep animal growl and backhanded Weylyn harshly, knocking him to the floor. Ellywick rolled off of his shoulders with a muffled shriek, and Weylyn quickly lost sight of her as she was swallowed up by the jostling crowd. Wiping the blood from his split lip gingerly, he rose shakily to his feet and turned to face his much larger opponent, choking back the white fury inside of him.  
"I'm terribly sorry, my dear sir, but I seem to have misplaced my lady friend, and she'll think me terribly rude if I don't manage to find her. So, if you'll excuse me. . ."  
The man smiled a black-toothed grin at Weylyn and hefted a club menacingly. "Oh, you ain't going nowheres, me pretty man. You gone and nearly knocked me over. Spilled half me wine down me new jerkin." He reached forward and grabbed Weylyn by the front of his shirt, his sour breath inches from Weylyn's face. "I don't take kindly to such bad manners, pretty man."  
Weylyn raised an eyebrow at him coolly. "Steady on, friend. This is a new shirt."  
"Pity you'll be getting blood all over it then, eh?" The hulking thug twisted his fingers into Weylyn's shirt, and with a loud curse, threw him a good twenty feet into a pile of chairs.  
Weylyn let out a gasp at a sharp pain slicing through his side, but did his best to ignore it and scrambled again to his feet. With a roar of rage still audible over the clamor of men brawling, the thug rushed at Weylyn, pinning his arms to his side in a crushing bear hug. White spots danced before Weylyn's eyes as the man slowly squeezed the life out of him. He clenched his jaw and fought seemingly uselessly back against the unstoppable pressure of the man's enormous arms.  
The man laughed stupidly into Weylyn's ear. "Goodbye me pretty man. I'll be sure to give your regards to your little lady friend. Don't worry; I'll finds her for you."  
A tiny flame of rage shot up behind Weylyn's eyes. Summoning the last scraps of his strength, he slammed his head forward, smashing his forehead into the bridge of his attacker's nose. The big man moaned and dropped Weylyn, staggering backwards and clutching at his face. Weylyn leaped forward and landed a swift spinning kick to the man's chest, knocking him to the ground. He crouched low and silently retrieved the dagger from his boot.  
Before he could make his move, the thug rolled over onto his knees and caught Weylyn across the jaw with a pewter mug. Sooner than he could pick himself up again, the thug was on him, grasping Weylyn by his long black hair and forcing his face into the floor littered with dirt, ash, and broken glass. Gritting his teeth, Weylyn tore himself out of the man's grip and, flipping over onto his back, plunged his dagger beneath the surprised thug's ribs in one smooth movement.  
Jerking his knife free, Weylyn pulled himself wearily out from under the bulk of the man's corpse. His eyes darted around the room, but the majority of the fighting had broken up. The mysterious elf and the remainder of his followers had disappeared, leaving a group of sheepish looking townsfolk nursing blackened eyes and bloody noses and handing the tight lipped landlady silver coins.  
Weylyn's eyes widened and he scanned the room again urgently, and then once more almost frantically. Ellywick was nowhere to be seen. He started pacing around the decimated common room, searching under overturned tables and broken chairs. No Ellywick. Behind the counter and under the staircase that led to the bedrooms. No sign of a golden haired little gnome. *What do you care?"* snapped the rational portion of his mind. *You're well rid of her. She slowed you down and did nothing but give you a two day headache. Don't you turn soft on me now Weylyn Blackwolf.* He bit his lip, looking to the half open door and the clear road beyond. He shook his head, lifting a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. *Well rid of her... * His fingers were pricked softly by something, and he gazed down in surprise at the flower he had found still tucked shyly back there. He rolled the stem reflectively between his fingertips, breathing in the scent of green and the tiny heart shaped petals. After a moment, he gave an exasperated sigh, told the rational portion of his mind exactly where it could go stick itself, and started to work his way back to the innkeeper.  
"Gnome?" she sputtered. "No, I ain't seen no gnomes. Nor no halflings nor no pixies or any such weird little folk. You mayhap haven't noticed, but I've got a few bigger problems to see to, if you take my meaning sir." She waved a half-empty bottle of port at him menacingly. "And if you think that *I'm* going to be the one that's cleaning that there body off the floor, you've got another thing coming, young fell. . ."  
Weylyn spun away before she could finish her rant and paced towards the half open door, stepping out into the cool, starlit night. Breathing the crisp air in slowly, he glanced around, up one side of the road and then the other. His keen eyes peered into the darkness of the still night and the dim alleyways, searching for a glimpse of golden hair. Nothing. Nothing.  
"Ellywick?" he called, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. "Ellywick? I'm getting really tired of this. It's been a rough week and you're not making it any easier on me. Ellyw-"  
His call was cut off abruptly as he felt an invisible force wrap around his neck and jerk him backwards. Struggling to his feet, he strained his eyes into the dark alley where he had been pulled, searching for his attacker.  
He growled softly. "Show yourself, coward. I've precious little to steal, but if you seek a swift death, I may be able to help you there."  
A low chuckle drifted towards him in answer, and quick as lightening a clawed hand shot out and took Weylyn around the throat in a vice grip. Out of the blackness, Weylyn made out a pair of cold eyes set deep in a charcoal face.  
"My, my. . . aren't we the little spitfire." The elf dug his claws in deeper, bringing pinpricks of red to Weylyn's throat. He leaned forward to whisper liquidly in Weylyn's ear. "I saw what you did to my minion, half-blood, and believe me, I am not smiling on it." His grip tightened. "I have hired these men for a very specific purpose. They are very good at it, and they are not cheap. You are lucky I don't skin you alive right now. I still might. However," he grinned, and the oily lamplight glinted off the hint of fangs. "I think I'll let you off easily this time, as you have inadvertently provided me with what I was looking for, despite all that."  
The dark elf stepped back. A few yards behind him, in the darkness, Weylyn could just make out the lurking figures of the dark elf's minions. Struggling wildly in the strong grip of one of the thugs was a very frightened Ellywick, her eyes huge above the strip of dirty cloth gagging her.  
Weylyn let out a snarl of rage and leaped for the ruffian holding Ellywick. The elf, however, only laughed and raised his hand, releasing a crack of energy that sent Weylyn flying backwards. Through his hazy vision, Weylyn saw the elf laugh wildly and spread the fringes of his cloak wide. But they were no longer part of a cloak. They were wings. Huge black wings that beat at the air and sent the refuse of the alleyway spinning into Weylyn's slumped form. *Gods be good. . . I should have realized. Some bastard freak of a Drow. * He staggered slowly to his feet, bracing himself against the crumbling brick of the alley wall. *Oh shit. . .*  
The elf creature rose into the air, smiling down on Weylyn condescendingly.  
"So long, my dirt encrusted little street rat. Thank you ever so much for the lovely gift. I promise to treat her as befits a gentleman of my standing." He laughed coldly.  
Weylyn shook his head, trying desperately to clear away the haze. "That's sea rat to you," spat Weylyn "You half-bred excuse for an elf. Tell me, black blood, have your priestesses grown so tired of their spiders that they've started playing with bats?" He lunged for the elf creature as he started to rise above Weylyn's reach.  
The Drow's lips twisted, and he growled softly, dangerously, his eyes black slits in the moonlight. "Now really, one would think you had learned your lesson the first time. I think I just may have to enjoy this." Once more he let fly a savage burst of power that caught Weylyn square in the chest, lifting him up and slamming him into the alley wall with a sickening crunch. Weylyn gave a soft, barely audible cry, and slid bonelessly to the earth. Ellywick, by this time, had shaken loose from her gag and was screaming his name, but the blackness had already taken him- far, far away from the pain and her cries and the dark lonely alleyway. 


	6. The Hospitality of Drow

  Author's Note:  Hello all, and welcome to an actual real chapter six!  Woohoo!  (there is much rejoicing)  A few quick notes first.  I want to shout some heartfelt thanks out; first to my irreplaceable beta LaughingWolf for dragging me out of some major plot problems, and also to LadyZeia for her enormous help with my formatting woes.  Biggs, if you read this far…Yes, Weylyn's "real" D&D exploits are just as entertaining, if not more so.  Two words.  Rabid squirrels.  Ah…and in case anyone is confused, this chapter actually picks up a little bit _before_ the last one ended.  Peace, ~EC  

_Earlier_

Ellywick hit the floor with a thump as the big smelly man knocked Weylyn to the ground.  She rolled to her feet almost immediately, muttering darkly.  The world was a confusion of running feet and brawling men and broken glass.   The crashed and careened around her tiny frame, nearly trampling her to the floor several times.  The jostling crowd had already closed in around where she had last seen Weylyn, and he was nowhere in sight.

Ellywick's eyes flared.  This was impossible.  Someone was going to have to teach these stupid big folk to play nice.  She smiled as a warm flood of power coursed through her, and she raised her hands preparing to end this silly fight before someone got hurt.  

The instant before she released her spell, an oily hand clapped over her mouth and another pinned her arms to her sides.  Her eyes widened, and she struggled wildly against her captor, but he paid her no more head than a small rag doll and began forcing his way towards the door.  Ellywick clenched her jaws together, preparing to stop her captor with a well placed hold spell.  The rush of power lifted within her, crackling like minute lightning up her spine and down the tips of her fingers.  With a muffled shout of triumph she let the spell loose, expecting to feel the dirty hairy hands holding her go stiff and unmoving.  There was a brief flare of sickly green light, and then…nothing. Within a few short moments, her captor had barreled his way through the tossing crowd and into the dark street.

Ellywick's brow was furrowed in furious thought, and she barely noticed as the other waiting ruffians bound her hands and gagged her.  Her spell hadn't worked.  Why?  _WHY?  _A hold spell was simple.  It was nothing.  A wizard of her caliber and expertise should be able to…  The dark elf that she had seen talking with the innkeeper slid elegantly into her vision, breaking in on her thoughts.

"Stone Brothers," he said simply.  One of the thugs behind lifted her up so she was looking into his cold, amethyst eyes.  He ran a tastefully manicured claw delicately along the line of her jaw.  "A very…select group of murderer's, thieves and assassins.  Able to completely absorb the effects of arcane magic."  His lips twisted in a mocking half grin.  "Though I'm sure you guessed that already.  And please don't try casting against me, because as long as one of these delightful men is holding you, that won't work either.  I hope you'll forgive me their brutality, but I'm afraid it's the only way I could assure myself of your. . .cooperation without dirtying my own hands.  They are very very costly mercenaries, I'm sure you know, and almost impossible to hire.  You should feel quite honored that someone wants to see you badly enough to go to all this trouble." 

Ellywick bared her teeth as savagely as she could and lashed out at the dark elf with her feet.  Catching him by surprise, she caught him full in the stomach and smiled as he was knocked backwards, the air leaving his lungs with a satisfying woosh.  The elf paused to catch his breath, and with minute care, brushed the scuff of mud from her boots off the blood red velvet of his doublet.  When he lifted his head, his eyes were burning with a barely controlled fury.  

 "That was not expressly wise, my little mage.  While my instructions are implicit that you reach your destination alive, that does not necessarily mean you have to be well.  So you had best…"  He paused, listening intently, and turned sharply to look back towards the mouth of the alleyway.  "Hist.  Someone is coming."  As one, the group melted silently into the shadows.

In the space of a few heartbeats, Weylyn stepped warily into view.  Ellywick was forced to look on, struggling bitterly against the immovable arms of her captor and the stifling gag, as Weylyn and the dark elf confronted each other in the half-light of the dank alley. Ellywick tried to look away but couldn't, not wanting to see as the dark elf hammered Weylyn into the crumbling brick walls until he slid unmoving to the ground.  She called for him then, but he didn't move or answer.  He was either far beyond hearing or caring or… she shook her head.  She didn't want to think about any other possibilities.  

The dark elf swooped almost lazily back to them, landing lightly and refolding his wings elegantly around his shoulders until they once again resembled an unusual cloak.  

"Mmmm," He said.  "That was far more fun than it should have been."  He glanced idly at Ellywick then turned sharply to lead his mercenaries from the dark alley.  "Come," he snapped.  "We've wasted enough time as it is.  And my friend does not like to be kept waiting."

Ellywick shook the rest of the dirty gag from her face, straining against the man holding her to shout at the elf's retreating form.

"What friend?  Where are you taking me?"  She kicked out viciously, trying to struggle free.  "And why did you do that to Weylyn?  He wasn't very smart, but at least he was *nice.*"

The elf didn't even turn as he answered.  "If you're referring to that scruffy human spawn, I did that to…Weylyn is it?"  The name was mocking on his tongue.    "Because his type usually frowns on the kidnapping of innocent maidens.  I really don't have the time or the patience to deal with someone doggedly trying to _rescue you.  As to my employer, I find that names are best whispered far away from prying ears, and the middle of a busy town is hardly that."_

By this time, they had made their way quietly through the little town and slipped into the dark border of the forest.  The night was almost oppressive beneath the black canopy of leaves.  The forest was old, very old, and only a few faint pricks of starlight were able to escape the tangle of twigs and leaves to fall in small patches on the forest floor.  Ellywick worked subtly on freeing herself from the gag once more.  Now she was angry.  She might not be able to use spells, but just let this stupid mean elf turn his back for ONE second, and she'd show him how "helpless" she was.  

            *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Weylyn smiled.  He hung at a crazy angle a good fifty feet above the deck, one hand holding fast to the rigging, both feet braced against the slowly rocking mast.  The black sails were roaring behind him, snapping in the crisp sea wind that blew his black hair into a wild tangle about his face.

_"I found him in the alleyway.  No, they were well away by the time I made sure this one was going to live.  I'm not sure who…"_

The gulls were crying as they spun and dived around the tall sails.  The wind was up and they were fairly flying along, cutting through the blue green waters of the southern coast with the dolphins racing in their wake.  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The air smelled of salt and spices and citrus ripening in the sun.  He had to shade his eyes against the bright golden light reflecting one thousand times off of the white breaking waves.  The crisp air was singing with the hiss of the breakers, the comfortable creaking of the rigging, and the dull hum of a crew at work. 

_"Oh come now, look at him.  I don't think he's much like to cause any trouble.  Yes, you have my word on it.  When have I let you down, Nissa?  Don't you give me that look…"_

He glanced lazily down to the deck as a shout rang up.  Rellan stood laughing up at him, his red hair burned to copper in the midday sun, that absurd raven of his flapping on his shoulder.  Men scurried to and fro over the pitching deck on one errand or another.  _His men.  Pale Jack at the tiller with his white blonde hair pulled back in a long braid and old Connor with his pock-marked face swabbing the deck near his cabin, and little Freyd, who most of them called Twitch scrambling up the lines like a monkey…_

_"Easy, friend.  You rest easy now."  _

_The innkeeper paused at the door, watching as the hooded man pulled a chair up to the half-elf's bedside, watching his pale face for signs of waking.  She sighed softly._

_"You almost hate to try and wake him, don't you?" she said.  "By that grin on his face I'd wager he's having some right lovely dreams."_

He tried to call out to them, but they gave no answer.  His voice was empty and echoing and the wind was growing harsh and cold around him.  The sky darkened and one by one the faces of his crew paled and drifted out of his sight.  Rellan went last of all, and Weylyn reached out for him desperately, but the sad silver blue eyes of his friend flashed once and he was alone…

When he awoke, the world was still in darkness.  This was probably a good thing as, judging by the way he currently felt, he had been recently beaten up by an entire party of enthusiastic four hundred pound dwarves.  With hammers.  Big ones.  As such, he had no desire to see what kind of shape his poor, abused, thin frame was in.  He closed his eyes again jadedly.  He really had to stop waking up like this.

He stretched his fingers experimentally, and was surprised to feel the soft brush of linen and wool against his hands.  A bed.  He was lying in a bed of some sort, though where this bed may be or who had put him there he didn't know.  Memory returned slowly to him, and he clenched his jaw as the last thing he remembered, the terrified face of Ellywick, floated behind his eyes.  It would be so much easier to go back to sleep.  To forget his pounding head and aching muscles to roll over and dream of a fat Maerish galley with her hull stoved in.  He sighed.  It wasn't any good.  He had to go.  He had to go now and find her before… before that bastard freak of an elf did whatever it was he was planning to do.  

He slowly tried to push himself up, but a wave of dizziness and nausea flooded over him and he collapsed over the side of the bed, retching.  A hand reached out of the darkness and pushed him gently back to a lying position.  A low measured voice chided him softly.

"Shhh…  Rest now, friend.  You took a nasty knock, and aren't in any shape to go charging off again any time soon."  

Weylyn moaned softly as the splitting pain piercing through his skull throbbed with every beat of his heart.  The stranger pushed a cup to Weylyn's mouth and he swallowed the lukewarm water gratefully, rinsing away the sour taste of dirt and blood.  When he had finished, he laid his head stiffly back onto the pillow and turned to better face his shadowed host.

"Where am I?" he whispered.  "What happened, and more importantly; who in the nine hells are you?  I suppose I should thank you for your kindness, but my . . . companion has been taken, and I have to find her, whether I like it or not."  He tried to lift himself once more from the tattered mattress.  "Now."

To Weylyn's extreme annoyance, he was too weak to resist as his host once more pushed him kindly but firmly down to the bed.  "To answer your first question, you are in The Tipsy Dragon, against the innkeep's better judgment I might add."  He grinned.  "She seems to think you have a look of trouble about you.  I'm afraid you won't be going anywhere for awhile yet, my friend.  You were hit by some pretty powerful magic, and you need to rest lest you do yourself more harm than good."  He lifted a hand to stop Weylyn's protest.  "No.  You wouldn't even make it out the door in the shape you're in." 

The man leaned forward and the moonlight coming through the cracked window picked out the lean features of a young man in stark relief.  His skin was a light copper and dotted across the nose with freckles.  The long tousled hair framing his face was a light brown faded to red speaking of a life spent in the sun.  His eyes were a bright grey, gentle, but surprisingly intense.  Weylyn blinked.  He had seen this man before.

 "You were in the tavern," Weylyn said.  "I saw you at one of the corner tables before the fighting broke out."  He winced and put a hand to the back of his aching head.  

The man nodded.  "My name is Tal.  I am a ranger of the Westwood, and I know who took your friend.  They were Stone Brothers, members of a group of mercenaries from the Dourn Hills that I have been trying to rid my forest of for quite some time now.  They do not fear that you will follow them."  He looked to the window, his thin cheeks sunken in the moonlight.  "They have no need to.  The men you fought. . . well, suffice to say I am highly surprised that you managed to take one down.  The fact that you did makes me near certain that the gods favor you.  The man who bought their services I have never seen before, but from what I have heard of Drow…" He shook his head.  "You should not even be alive."

            Weylyn grimaced.  "I believe he was rather more interested in making a speedy departure than with making sure I was dead.  Rather nice of him.  Remind me to thank him later."  His lips quirked up in a feral smile.  "Personally."

            This actually solicited a laugh from the somber young human.  "You may yet, friend.  You may yet."  He placed a hand on Weylyn's shoulder.  "For now, though, we both rest.  The sun is nearly up, and I do not think the dark elf will travel in daylight if he can help it.  We have some time; use it to regain your strength."  Tal stood and made his way slowly to the door.

            Weylyn let his head fall to the thin pillow with a muffled thud, closing his eyes wearily, listening to the soft tread of Tal's retreating footsteps.  Before the young ranger had left the room, Weylyn called out to him.  "Tal…  Far be it from me to question the kindness of strangers, but…why?  You do not know me."  He grinned lop-sidedly.  "Perhaps it's better that you don't, but…why help me?"  He listened to the moment of silence as Tal paused quietly by the open door.

            The young ranger smiled slowly.  "Because you fight like a man possessed, Weylyn.  We both hunt the same men, and I believe we can help each other.  You seek to rescue your gnome friend, and I…" He gazed again at the silver moon hanging heavy in the slowly paling sky.  "Well…I have my own reasons to wish an end to the Stone Brothers.  It's a long story, and you need your rest right now.  Perhaps another time.  Sleep well."  The ancient wooden door creaked once, and he was gone.

*          *          *          *          *          *

            They left the small, dusty town when the sun was just beginning its slow descent from high noon.  Tal had bought them provisions, but they took no horses with them.

            "I followed the tracks from the alley where I found you," he said, shouldering a laden leather satchel and adjusting the twin curved daggers at his belt.  "They must have thought you dead, or at least unlikely to follow them, as they made no great effort to cover signs of their passing.

            Weylyn finished running his dagger over the whetstone and began to slowly peel the skin from an apple with it as they walked.  "Lovely.  To what picturesque corner of the globe are we headed, then?"

            "West," Tal nodded.  "Through the forest and perhaps beyond.  The woods are untamed in these parts, even by the rangers.  Tulley here is the only notable town for miles."

            "Ah," Weylyn mused.  "I assume this is why I'm being forced to forgo the comfort of a horse."

            Tal laughed.  "The forest itself is nearly impassable, the roads aren't being kept as well as they should, and it's doubtful that our quarry is even staying to the well traveled areas."  He ducked to avoid the low branches of an oak as they passed into the wild borders of the wood.  "Then there is the possibility that they may make for the Dourn Hills and the Wolveswood beyond.  The Dourn are far from mountains, but they are nonetheless treacherous, mostly piled boulders and broken shale—you'll start a landslide if you look at them funny.  No, I'm afraid you'll have to settle for your own two feet, my friend."

            Weylyn grimaced as Tal released an ill timed branch and caught him square in the face.  He sighed, rolling his eyes to the heavens.  "Wonderful."

            The days passed in a blur for Weylyn.  They rested little and slept less.  The forest was an unbelievable labyrinth of towering black oaks and tangled bracken where the sun seldom reached in more than infrequent dapples.  Tal had spoken truly though, the men they hunted had not taken much thought as to who would follow them, and the ranger's keen eyes found the trail easily.  

The forest seemed endless.  They hiked through halls of towering elms and clear open glades lit silver in the moonlight.  They clambered over tangles of moss covered boulders and crossed an ancient rope and timber bridge that stretched precariously over a ravine.  Nearly two hundred feet below, a white ribbon of river tumbled over stones the size of pebbles.  After nearly a week of slow travel, Tal told Weylyn he wagered that they were less than a day or two behind the dark elf and his mercenaries, and pushed the march even more ruthlessly.  Weylyn was footsore, haggard, and weary by then, and starting to hate the perpetually tireless Tal.

            He muttered darkly to himself one evening, trying to tease a sizable thorn out of his foot as the two rested in a little clearing.  Tal had built a small fire and was busy skinning a rabbit.  He glanced up and gave a short laugh at the sight of Weylyn bent nearly double and grumbling dire threats at his feet.

            "Have a care, Weylyn," he said, trying to keep his face straight.  "There's many a man has lost his foot and worse to the dire thorns of the Westwood."

            Weylyn winced as he finally grasped the broken barb and removed it.  "I have more of a care for what the damn thing did to my boot.  Look at that."  He held up the black leather sole for closer inspection, running a finger woefully around the ragged hole the thorn had made.  "I had these made in Ilyenni.  It will be _years before I can get them properly replaced."  He pulled the damaged boot on with an irritated grunt._

            Tal had spit the rabbit and was reclining lazily next to the fire.  He raised an eyebrow.  "Ilyenni?  You're a long way from home, friend.  Ilyenni is nearly a thousand leagues from here, and across the Black Spine to boot."

            Weylyn glanced at him warily from half closed eyes.  "The…sailor has no home," he said indifferently.  "And Ilyenni is not so far as the ship sails."

            "That's true enough."  Tal said amiably and rose to give the rabbit a turn.  "I thought I caught the scent of salt about you…"  He would have said more, but Weylyn lifted his head suddenly and held up a hand for silence.  The half-elf was staring somewhere off into the distance, his head slightly cocked, listening.

            "Do you hear that?"  He spun suddenly, striding to the nearest tree and vaulting into the lower branches.  "Put the fire out.  Now!"  He wasted no more words, but clambered higher into the thick branches.

            Tal gave Weylyn an odd look, but did as he was asked, dousing the low flames and mentally giving a mute apology to the rabbit.  He padded silently over to the tree Weylyn was perched in, glancing up through the twisting branches.

            "What do you see?" he whispered urgently.  There was no answer for a moment, and Tal opened his mouth to call again.  He shut it with an audible snap as Weylyn dropped down next to him, landing on his feet soft as a cat.

            "There's smoke.  A cookfire or some such.  We've found the Stone Brothers."  He paced restlessly around the clearing, buckling on his sword belt, and gave a short mirthless laugh.  "Gods, we're nearly on top of them."

            Tal started hastily readying their gear.  "How far?"

            "An hour's march, maybe two.  Less if we don't stand around jabbering at each other like Halflings on holiday."

            Tal kicked dirt into the smoldering ashes of their fire as Weylyn picked their trail to the North and West.  The ranger stretched his strides to catch up with him. 

            "Weylyn?  What made you climb that tree?"  Tal reached forward and laid a slim calloused hand on Weylyn's shoulder.  "What did you hear?"

            The young half-elf stared stonily forward, his face blank.  Finally, he sighed and raised a hand to rub tiredly at his eyes.

            "Voices, faint on the wind."  He sighed.  "Someone screaming."

            Tal raised an eyebrow.  "The gnome?"

            Weylyn gave no answer, but quickened his pace and stormed ahead, disappearing quickly into the forest gloom.

                        *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

            Ellywick glared sullenly at the strange Drow stretched next to the fire, idly cleaning his claws.  She had tried an escape when they had first stopped to set up camp, but that had only resulted in a black eye and another guard watching her every move.  The dark elf lifted his deep nigtshade eyes and returned her gaze with a smirk. Stretching lazily, he smoothed the invisible wrinkles in his immaculate doublet.  

            "Well, my dearest little gnome," he said.  "We're nearly there, and you're none the worse for wear; though in dire need of a bath."

            She wiggled in the grip of the beefy Stone Brother who kept one hand around her throat and one around her arm at all times.

            "You should be ashamed of yourself," she snapped.  "Kidnapping innocent beautiful maidens!"  She wrinkled her brow at him in a stern glower.  "What would your mother say if she knew how mean you turned out?"

            The look the dark elf turned on her would have made rocks bleed.  "I have no mother," he growled through clenched teeth.  It was the first time he had truly shown signs of losing his temper.  Most people would have realized that they had touched a nerve.  Most people would have been frightened by the dark hissing tone and the elf's softly burning eyes.  But Ellywick was not most people.  

            "You don't have a mother?"  Her huge brown eyes started slowly leaking tears onto the gruff hands that held her.  "Oh you poor poor thing!  That's the saddest thing I've ever heard!  No wonder you're such a big mean grouch!"  The Drow looked on in disbelief as the little gnome started wailing in sorrow on his behalf.  Quicker than thought, she had torn out of the Stone Brother's grasp and pelted across the short distance between her and the elf.  With a flying leap she was into his arms and clinging to his chest like a little limpet, sobbing into his priceless silk shirt.  Thrown off balance by her tackle of kindness, he landed on his backside with a loud grunt, flailing his arms in an attempt to defend himself from her cuddling.

            "That's okay," she said, hugging him tight.  "I forgive you.  I knew all you needed was a big warm hug."

            The elf's eyes widened in near panic, as he tried to detangle himself.  "What in the name of-- Get it off of me!"  The mercenaries raced forward, pulling Ellywick away from him with more difficulty than would seem possible.  He staggered to his feet, hair and clothing in disarray, and nearly spitting with fury.  Before he could round on Ellywick though, the Brother they had left as lookout dropped lightly from the trees and raced up to the elf.

            "We got unwelcome company, sir.  They're coming fast."  

"_What?  Rot you for a half blind dog; I _knew_ I should have set wards._"_  The elf grabbed at the front of the man's soiled tunic.  "Who?  Quick now, or I'll have your tongue as well as your eyes." _

The thug scratched agitatedly at a jagged scar on his nose.  "That goat's son of a half-elf what killed Torek.  And a ranger, like as not the same one that me brothers have had trouble with before in these woods."

            The dark elf growled in irritation, and turned to scan the woods for the intruders.

            _Weylyn!, thought Ellywick, bouncing around in her captor's grip.  __He isn't dead then.  _Now's my chance or not at all!_  Summoning up all the fury in her little frame, she opened her mouth and bit down __hard on the hand that held her.  The mercenary gave a distinctly feminine shriek and dropped her like a hot coal.  Landing on all fours, Ellywick went racing off into the dark shelter of the trees.                                                                                                                _

            The dark elf closed his eyes for a moment as he heard the shout of alarm and the sound of mercenaries scrambling suddenly around the clearing, beating the bracken for a sign of the little gnome.  He counted to ten.  He cleared his throat.  

"I am going to open my eyes and then I am going to turn around," he said in a calm measured voice.  "And when I do, I am NOT going to find that you have dropped the gnome and lost the entire reason we have made this wretched trek halfway across the country."  He turned around, his face a stony mask, to the sight of his six mercenaries standing around looking sheepish.  Sans one blonde gnome. 

            He put an elegant hand to his temple, his eyes closed in pained resignation.  "Apparently that was too much to ask."  His voice was low and amiable, but the men shrank back from the white hot anger behind his cold eyes.  "You."  He pointed to the nearest Brother, a wiry man with dirty blond hair.  "Are to follow me.  The rest of you listen, and listen well.  You will wait here for our uninvited guests.  You will surround, overpower, and kill them."  He paused, fixing them one by one with his dark gaze.  "Or I will personally tear the skins from your worthless carcasses and nail them to hell's black gate as a warning to the incompetent."  With a flash of black wings, he disappeared into the night shrouded wood.  __


	7. Of Ivy and Stone

Hi ho everyone, and welcome to the long awaited chapter 7!!  **thunderous applause**  Alright, I want to start off by apologizing profusely for how long it took me to get this up.  I really don't have a very good excuse, save the fact that I got an insane bout of writer's block and getting this chapter done was like pulling teeth.  I'd also like to thank once again my wonderful beta Laughingwolf and of course my irreplaceable editor Craeft.  Happy now, you two?  Sheesh.  Ah yes, and the largest thank you of all goes to The Corsairs, without whose Blue Album I would not have been able to finish this goddam chapter.  

                 The gloom that hung heavily over the forest at all times was swiftly deepening.  Tal blinked in the tricky half light, stepping softly through the treacherous bracken and the grabbing thorns, painfully aware of the snap of every brittle twig.  He peered ahead into the tangle of woods, trying to catch a glimpse of Weylyn's shadowy form flitting half seen before him like a wraith in the twilight.  

He was about to push forward through a low thicket of brambles when a pale hand on his chest brought him up short.  Weylyn materialized suddenly out of the darkness, his green eyes black under the dark trees.  He held a finger to his lips and tilted his head to the side, beckoning Tal to follow him.  They crept forward, silent as shadows until the woods began to glow softly with the dim reflection of firelight.

Tal tiptoed ahead quietly to peer into the small clearing before them.  The faint embers of a dying fire burned sullenly in the midst of the campsite and cast flickers of golden light against ancient trees hung thick with vines.  There were some small items of baggage tossed haphazardly about and what looked like the beginnings of a tent.  Of the Stone Brothers and their dark leader, however, there was no sign.

He melted warily back into the shadows, shaking his head.  "I do not like this," he hissed beneath his breath.  "This is their camp, without a doubt, but there is no more sign of life than the song of crickets.  This could be an ambush.  In fact,"   He lifted his head to glance again into the silent clearing, and his eyes shone softly in the dying firelight.  "In fact, I am willing to say this is about as obvious an ambush as I have ever seen."

There was a soft hiss as Weylyn drew one of his daggers from his belt and tested the blade against his thumb.  He nodded slowly.  "Mmmm…  I would have to agree with you there, my dear friend.  If those trees aren't full of our unwashed prey, than I'm a striped seal."  He slid the dagger back into its sheath.  "Unfortunately, I don't think we have too many options at this point."

Tal pursed his lips.  "You're probably right…  But that doesn't mean I have to like it."  He sighed, his eyes returning to the clearing and burning with an old anger.  "Too long has my forest been overrun with these rats.  This is not the first time they have used these woods to cover their retreat, to come skulking back to after their latest depravity."  He spat.  "And it will not be the last.  One ranger alone cannot stem this tide."

Weylyn turned his head to glance at Tal, surprised by the smoldering vehemence in the usually mild ranger's voice.  He raised an eyebrow.  "One would think the local authorities would have something to say about this.  Perhaps even his royal decadence the Emperor would send you aid, if these Stone Brothers are as big a menace as you say."

Tal laughed low in his throat, completely devoid of mirth.  "Do not think I haven't asked, Weylyn.  I have gone to the city guards of Tulley and Glasstower and White Gate.  I have made the long trek to Emerald Bay and begged for aid on my knees before the Emperor himself.  Oh, they were all very polite."  His lips twisted up in a mockery of a grin.  "They told me in the most courteous way possible that there is no law against the selling of services, and that the Emperor's men had better things to do than chase down every sellsword this side of the Hills of Dourn.  In other words, the Stone Brothers have wasted no time in paying their dues to the Emperor.  They keep his pockets lined with gold and conveniently the fine men of the Watch suddenly have better things to do."  He shook his head angrily and looked once more to the dark clearing before them.  "I would give anything for the power to wipe these vermin from my forest for good and all, but I _cannot_ do it alone."

  He didn't move as Weylyn placed a hand softly on his shoulder.  "Not alone Tal," he smiled crazily.  "Not this time."   

Tal grasped his hand and grinned back at him gratefully.  "Well, then I suppose we two mighty warriors had best get this little piece of suicide over with.  Fortune today, death tomorrow, or so the corsairs say."

Weylyn swallowed and quickly pushed his way past Tal and into the clearing.  

"Do they?" he shouted as the five Stone Brothers leapt out of their hiding places with a roar.  "I wouldn't know."

With a puzzled look, Tal dove after him into the dim circle of firelight. 

*                        *                                   *                                *                         *

The forest was blacker than tar.  The darkness in the air was almost a tangible thing that she had to cut her way through in her mad dash for freedom.  She ran blindly with no sense of direction or any idea what dangers lay before her, and the trees loomed up out of the shadows before her like tall, solemn sentries.  The skeletal branches whipped at her face and the grasping brambles tore at her clothes and legs as she sprinted wildly through the gloom.

When she could run no longer, she hid gasping behind the nearest tree, the rough bark pressing into her bruised palms, trying to quiet her hammering heart.  She perked up her ears, straining to hear the dreaded sounds of pursuit.  Nothing.  She sighed.  The forest around her was silent and calm.  Tucking her hair behind her ears, she tiptoed out from behind her hiding place, hoping to better get her bearings.  

With a flash of black wings a dark form dropped from the sky to land on the path right in front of Ellywick with a hiss.  It slowly folded its wings to resolve into the elegant figure of the dark elf, staring furiously at the gnome.

"I am sorry to inform you," he growled.  "That I have finally lost my patience."  

Ellywick dove blindly to the side, barely dodging the crack of raw power as the tree she had been standing next to exploded.

"You know…  I'm going to stop being nice to you if you keep acting like this!"  She shouted.  "Even if you don't have a mommy…that's no excuse for being rude!"  Ellywick ducked hurriedly as another crack of power filled the air. She sniffed at the acrid smell drifting from the burning trees and wrinkled her nose.  Taking a deep breath, Ellywick tumbled out from behind the cover of the tree and, muttering softly, made a few complex gestures in the darkness.

There was a satisfying muffled crunch and a long creative stream of elvish swearing as the drow ran face first into her wall of force.  He reeled backwards, clutching his bruised nose and trying to blink the stars out of his vision.  Closing his eyes in concentration, he placed his hands against the wall and grit his teeth, bending the entirety of his will against the invisible force.

He grinned wolfishly as he felt the wall slowly give way.  With a final burst of energy, he broke free, panting slightly.  His dark eyes scanned the trees once more, searching.  The gnome had hidden herself, and he crept forward softly as a cat stalking its prey.  "Come out, little friend," he hissed alluringly.  "You have my word that I will not lift a claw to harm you.  Come now, we can all see the logic in that, can't we?  You can't keep slinging spells at me forever, you know.  And, thanks to my dear mother's side of the family, any that you do get off before you collapse from exhaustion, I will likely be able to resist."

There was a shrill defiant cry of "Resist this!" from the trees as a flash of bright blue lit the trees in stark relief.  A sudden low hum nearly drove the dark elf's ears into his skull as a blast of icy wind slammed into him.  The cold crept up his limbs and seemingly deep down into his bones.  It crept over his face and froze in a sparkling rim of frost across his eyelashes.  It was within and without him, a dull aching deep inside and the piercing of dozens of knives across his skin.  He tried to shake his head, feeling the bones in his neck creak painfully.

"All right," he coughed over the rime of frost on his lips.   "I'll give you that one."  In a stiff labored motion he drew the longsword from the sheath on his back, its blade obsidian black in the dappled moonlight.  Sketching arcane patterns in the air with his free hand, he began growling low in his throat, the strange syllables seeming to crawl across the chill night air.  With a final syllable, the woods were plunged into impenetrable darkness.

Ellywick waved a hand desperately in front of her face.  The blackness pressed against her eyes and crept over her skin like a smothering blanket.  If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn she had gone blind; no speck of starlight or moonlight dared penetrate that horrible darkness.  A low chuckle came out of the pitch black sea and grated against her ears.

"My, my, my…  Aren't _we in a spot of trouble?  I can see _you_ quite clearly, and yet somehow I doubt you have the same luck."  The dark elf laughed again.  Gritting her teeth and uttering an oath that made her own ears turn pink, Ellywick did her best to approximate where the voice was coming from.  Concentrating hard against her anger and fear, she pulled together her reserves into what she hoped would be a final spell.  She heard the dark elf hesitate as he saw her hands weave in their arcane movements, but it was too late for him to do anything but curse as he was engulfed by a massive sphere of fire._

The flames did nothing to push away the blackness; the forest immediately around her was still as thick as ink.  For a moment, all she heard was the dull roaring of the dancing blaze.  As it died away, the forest was left in silence.  There was no snapping of twigs or crunch of leaves, no rustling of clothing from the direction she had cast towards.  She counted the beats of her heart.  One…  Two…  Three…  Nothing.  The forest was utterly still.  She let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding in and smiled.  She had either managed to blindly hit the bastard or he had run away. Either way was fine with her.

In a splintered instant, this delusion was shattered as a clawed hand struck like lightning out of nowhere and took hold round her neck.  Ellywick squeaked as she felt the needle pricks of talons pressing lightly against the racing veins in her neck.  The faint scent of smoke wafted across her face as the dark elf leaned close to her.

"That is quite enough of that," he spat.  She could feel the heat from his breath brushing her ear.  This close, he smelled faintly of crushed lilacs.  "My hands may be tied when it comes to your wretched _life_, but by the dark gods, you will be _sorry_ if you cast so much as a_ light_ spell, you wretched toadstool."

Ellywick's eyes were huge in the dark.  "I _am sorry!"  She whispered softly._

The dark elf closed his eyes and rubbed a temple wearily.  "And what, pray tell, are you sorry for, my smelly little gnome?"

"Well," she said, batting her eyelashes innocently.  "_This_ for starters." She laughed as she brought her hands together quicker than thought.  Twin bolts of pure magic shot from the tips of her dainty fingers and struck him square in the chest.  

The impact threw them both to the ground.  The dark elf lay still for a moment, coughing raggedly.  Drawing his sword again with a painful hiss, he rolled to his feet and spat blood.  "Enough," he whispered raggedly.  "This game is done."  He swung the blade blindingly fast, but through luck or keen senses, Ellywick sensed his attack and rolled clear.  

Drawing the walking staff from her back as she tumbled, Ellywick swung it desperately in the direction she guessed the dark elf to be.  Her first attack swung wide and whiffed harmlessly through the air.  She smiled, however, as a loud _crack and a furious oath from the elf spoke of a palpable hit from her second. Stumbling as the supple wood connected to the back of his knee, the elf lashed out with his good leg and sent Ellywick flying with a well placed kick. _

 The elf cast a look of pure annoyed hatred at Ellywick, as he swung his black blade in a swift arc as the little gnome struggled to pick herself up from the forest floor.  Unable to see and without the time to sense the elf's attack, she had no chance to evade.  The flat of the blade caught her across the back of the head as she tried to pick herself up from the ground, and the little gnome's world went blacker than the unnatural darkness around her. 

With a sharp word and a quick gesture from the elf, the blackness was lifted, and the soft light of the moon lit the tangled clearing once more.  The dark elf gazed dispassionately at the crushed little figure on the ground before gesturing to the wiry Stone Brother watching from the shadows.  

"Take her," he said shortly.  "We make for the tower tonight."

                                    *          *          *          *          *

Weylyn ducked, the iron studded cudgel of his opponent barely brushing the top of his hair.  Tumbling nimbly forward, he rolled between the hulking mans legs and sprang up behind him.  With a deft scissoring motion of his daggers, he hamstrung the brute before springing up to meet the attack of yet another Stone Brother.  

Not five yards away, Tal was hard pressed to hold his own against two of the mercenaries.  The curved blades of his twin daggers flashed silver and scarlet in the light of the moon and the dieing flames as he struggled to keep up his catlike dance.  He deftly blocked the heavy handed attacks of one man, only to feel his legs suddenly torn out from under him with a wrenching jerk.  Landing hard with a muffled grunt, he followed the tangled line of a whip that ran from his ankles to the fist of a leering brute with a broken nose.  Cursing under his breath, Tal flipped over to land crouching on his haunches, tearing the whip's handle from his attacker's hand and causing the mercenary to fall forward with a grunt.  Tal worked madly to untangle the thongs of cracked leather, keeping half an eye on the prone man before him.  He was just pulling himself free when the Stone Brother leapt to his feet with a roar…only to be cold cocked by the heavy hilt of Weylyn's rapier.

"Bit thick, isn't it?"  He said callously.  In the pit of his heart, however, Weylyn was worried.  Both he and Tal were tiring, and the mercenaries still outnumbered them two to one.  And there was no sign of Ellywick.  He spun suddenly, deflecting a heavy chipped blade, but doubled over as the mercenary's fist connected with his stomach.  The air left his lungs in a painful rush, and he stood bent over for several heartbeats trying to regain it.  By that time, the mercenary had him by the throat.  

Tal was quickly tiring.  The Stone Brothers were not only skilled fighters, they were also each two or three times larger than both he and Weylyn, and the advantage was beginning to show.  Moving to block his opponent's next attack, Tal was too slow to catch the subtle feint of the man's blade, and was sent reeling from a savage blow.

He slammed into the trunk of an ancient tree, hung heavy with moss and tangled vines.  Wiping the warm flow of blood from his vision, Tal tried to pull himself into a defensive stance, but stumbled backward as a wave of dizziness flooded over him.  He shook his head angrily as his vision began to blur.  Leaning back heavily, he tangled his fingers in the thick vines and hauled himself to a standing position, ready to face his last few moments on this earth with bravery.  He glanced wearily to Weylyn; the young half-elf's struggles were becoming weaker as the Stone Brother holding him by the throat slowly squeezed the life out of him.  Tal shook his head mournfully, he wished he had had the time to know the young fighter better; he was a good man, if…strange at times.

Something deep within Tal refused to give in, however.  Some deep nagging thought teased at him and he paused, staring blearily down at the twisted greenery in his hands.  _If only…_  Tal shook his head.  It had been a long time since he had tried anything like that.  _And yet…  The ranger laughed.  "And yet" indeed.  What did he really have to lose at this point?  Trying to ignore the pain wracking his body, and the slow steady advance of the mercenaries intent on finishing him off, Tal closed his eyes and _reached.  _Speaking softly in a lilting ancient language he reached for the sleepy spirits of the plants around him.  He smiled slowly as he felt a faint rustle, and the tough fibrous vines seemed to almost…yawn.  _

The mercenary, a thick, red bearded ruffian named Graenn, stepped warily forward.  His prey was leaning drunkenly against the fringe of trees, breathing heavily with his eyes closed.  He looked about half dead, but Graenn wasn't taking any chances with this one.  No sir.  He and his brothers had had far too much trouble from this particular runt of a tree lover already.  The mercenary spat, treading cautiously closer to the seemingly comatose ranger.  His eyes did not open as Graenn moved closer, and the mercenary smiled wolfishly, spitting on his hands and preparing to dispatch of the troublesome young man in one swift stroke of his pitted blade.

A faint rustling brought him up short.  He peered forward through the flickering gloom and hesitated as he saw the vines surrounding Tal lift and undulate, as if brushed by an unseen hand.  He shook his head, snorted derisively at his own foolishness, and took what was to be his last step in the realm of the living.  With an explosive _hiss the deep green tangle of vines surged forward like living whips, knocking the dumbfounded mercenary's sword from his hands and wrapping around his neck in the space of a breath._

The clearing erupted into chaos, as the thick wild vines awoke and tangled themselves aggressively around the mercenaries.  The Stone Brothers' attempts to free themselves from the creepers grew increasingly frantic, as the living nooses tightened around each of their thick necks.  The man attacking Weylyn grabbed the young pirate's arm in a death grip, his fingernails gouging painfully into Weylyn's arm and drawing thin lines of blood as he was dragged unstoppably backwards.  Still gasping for air himself, Weylyn aimed a savage kick at the mercenary's stomach. The mercenary fell back with a strangled cry, taking most of Weylyn's right shirt sleeve with him, as the vines tightened further over his quickly purpling face.

Within the space of a few minutes, the clearing was deathly silent.  The leaves of ivy that now covered the clearing's floor, rustled peacefully in the night breeze.  Weylyn laughed raspily, rubbing his throat where the big thug's fingers had left dark bruises.  

"Well, my friend, it looks like it was fortune today.  Nicely done.  Looks like I owe you my life yet again."  He grinned.  "Let's try not to make a habit of that, hmmm?"

Tal did not answer.  Puzzled, Weylyn lifted his eyes to find the young ranger just…staring at him, his eyes piercing in the dark.  Fearing he may be hurt, Weylyn stepped softly towards him.  

"Tal?"

Tal blinked and shook his head softly, as if waking from some dark dream.  "You— you seem to have lost your sleeve."  He said at last.

Weylyn raised an eyebrow and looked frowningly down at his right arm.  "Mmmm…yes.  Pity that."  He sat down on the nearest leaf covered corpse.  "The question is where do we go from here?  We've taken down your little friends, yes."  He shook his head angrily.  "But there is no sign of where Ellywick is, or if she is even still among the living."

Tal ran a hand through his hair.  "It's no use falling into despair at this point, Weylyn.  We've come too far for that."  He leaned wearily against a tree, resting his head against the rough bark.  "Not all tracks were obliterated by our little dinner party here.  There is the suggestion that someone with gnome sized feet left heading to the Northeast.  If that's the case, they may very well be taking her to the Keep."

Weylyn raised an eyebrow.  "A keep?  In the middle of this god forsaken nowhere?"

Tal shrugged.  "It's more of a ruin now, an atrocity of black stone and iron, not to mention black sorcery if you believe half the tales.  No one knows who built it, or indeed why; at least, no one that I have spoken to.  On my last patrol through this region, nothing was living there but legends and old wives' tales."  He looked darkly through the trees to the North.  "Apparently that has changed."

Weylyn shivered unpleasantly and slid his rapier back into the supple leather sheath.  "Lovely.  Well…best foot forward I suppose.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that rot."  He strode without a backward glance into the dark fringe of the trees.

Tal didn't move, but stared silently after him with that same calculating piercing gaze.  After a moment, he shook his head, sheathed his daggers and followed quietly after the young pirate to the Northeast where, had they been able to see above the softly murmuring trees; the black tips of a tower could be seen, blotting out the first young stars.


	8. Bevariel

Author's Note: Hello everyone. Once again, sorry for the terminally late update, but the proverbial shit has been flying fast and hard lately. And I'd like to shout a huge thank you to all of you out there still sticking with this odd little story and telling me what you think.

Oh yes, and for everyone out there saying to yourselves "Woe is me, for I cannot find a great, well thought out, DnD story with memorable characters…" Look no further. For here is a plug for the fantastic and sadly overlooked "Follies Under the Banner." Read it now. The captain commands it. Aargh.

Peace, all.

EireCat

The ancient tower loomed over Weylyn and Tal, casting its dark shadow like a huge sentinel over the night shrouded clearing. The crumbling battlements and moss covered arches could not disguise the fact that in its time this had been a formidable watch over the western forests. Now, however, the black tower kept watch only over an endless swaying sea of trees, and its proud parapets were primeval and decaying. The clearing was silent; even the crickets and night frogs seemed unwilling to disturb the solemn, forbidding hush that lay over the land like a shroud.

Tal swallowed. "This is an evil place. Even the stars seem dim to me here, Weylyn. Tell me, what do your elven eyes see?" Tal yelped softly as Weylyn backhanded him.

"I see a full grown man who's letting a dark forest and a decrepit outhouse turn him into a dithering old fishwife. Elven eyes indeed…" He snorted, storming into the clearing and muttering half articulated views on humans in general. Tal ran a hand through his mousey hair with a sigh and followed cautiously after the young half elf's dark form.

He caught up with him at the base of the tower but stopped short as Weylyn placed a hand suddenly against his chest.

"Watch your step. It seems our Drow friend wasn't entirely happy with the quality of his hirelings' services."

Tal looked past Weylyn's shoulder and choked in disgust at the scene before him. The sad remains of the final Stone Brother sprawled before them in a pool of blood, ichor, and flayed skin; a look of agony and horror stamped forever on his almost indiscernible features. Weylyn whispered softly in elven next to him, oath or prayer; Tal wasn't certain.

Turning from the horrific scene, the two of them paused, staring at the entirely unremarkable wooden door in front of them. The lichen covered it thickly, and the ancient iron catch was heavy with rust. The silence of the dark clearing pressed closer as if listening to the two men breathe. Tal prodded Weylyn.

"Well?" Tal whispered.

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"Of course I'm going to open it. I'm just…waiting for the proper moment." Weylyn rubbed the back of his neck fitfully.

"Bullocks," hissed Tal with a grin that approached the gleefully malicious. "You're frightened. Admit it."

Weylyn shot him a dirty look. "If you're so smart, why don't _you_ open it, Mr. At-One-With-the-Forest? I seem to recall this domain as being under _your_ protection."

"Because, my friend, _you _are the one who called it a decrepit outhouse. And _you_ are the one who said I was being a fishwife for thinking this place is evil. And _you _are the one whose friend is currently having gods know what done to her in that heap of black brick." Weylyn glared daggers at him.

"You bastard." He released a long sigh through his teeth. Tal was right. He'd come too far to turn back now because a broken heap of stone was giving him a case of crawling skin. Drawing his black blade with a defiant look at Tal, he took a running start and threw the entire weight of his shoulder into the ancient door. He grunted in surprise as it swung inward easily and sent him sprawling face first into a staircase of crumbling stone. Tal stepped over his prone form, trying to hide a smile.

"Nicely done."

Muttering creative obscenities, Weylyn picked himself up, and followed the dim shadow of the ranger up the stairs and into the darkness beyond.

The staircase wound upwards for seemingly miles without showing signs of a window or an ending. Tal had set light to a torch near the bottom of the steps, and they picked their way easily over the slightly treacherous broken stairs. The air in the long climb was silent and stuffy, ancient, but the dust did not hang as heavily in the air or on the steps as it should have. Weylyn grit his teeth. Someone was here; but who and to what purpose was anyone's guess. He sighed.

_What the hell am I doing here? I_ should_ be on the Bay of Emeralds about now… slitting throats for the pure pleasure of running my hands through golden coins…or perhaps golden hair… _

He smiled nostalgically at the thought.

_Instead, here I am in the middle of a time forgotten forest, in a crumbling tower serving as the lair of the gods know what, miles from the sea that has been my only home for the last twenty-five years, and creeping stealthily towards an unknown and yet almost certainly nasty doom…for the safety and well-being of a gnome. A _gnome

He shook his head. "You're really losing it, old boy."

Tal half turned, hearing him speak, and raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry? Did you say something?"

Weylyn laughed quietly. "Nothing, Tal. Nothing at all."

Eventually, the stairs ended, widening into a broad landing before a small, unassuming wooden door. Tal glanced around briefly.

"Well, my friend, there are no other openings. It seems this is the end of the road for us. Are you going to open it?"

Weylyn looked up from where he had been loosening his rapier in its scabbard and gave Tal a withering glance. "Let's not go through that again." Stepping forward warily, he lifted the latch on the worn wooden door and pushed. With a creaking sigh, it swung inward, letting the faint glow of candlelight filter onto the landing. It landed softly on Weylyn's face, throwing it into strange planes and shadows. He gave Tal half a wild grin.

"Well…once more unto the breech, old man." The air rang softly as he slid the black blade from its scabbard and burst through the doorway. Drawing both daggers with a snarl, Tal lunged after him.

Whatever the two expected to find beyond that dark doorway, it was not what greeted them. Weylyn blinked in the fitful light of candelabras and torches, taking in the rich carpeting and elegant furniture. Though there were a few animal skeletons of various species posed about the room, they were obviously nothing more than taxonomical studies. It was clean and comfortable and not in the least dank and dripping with dark sorcery. He paused, puzzled, and felt the air stir as Tal shifted around behind him.

A sudden shriek split the air, and Weylyn found himself bowled over backwards as a small form catapulted into his stomach. The back of his head hit the dusty stone floor with a sharp crack, and he blinked dazedly at the spots of light dancing before his eyes. He shook his head and tried to focus his fuzzy vision on the small figure perched on his chest. He let out a long sigh.

"Hello, Ellywick."

"WEYLYN! I wondered when you were gonna show up! I missed you a whole lot, and I didn't know whether you would come get me or not 'cuz WOW you took a nasty hit back in that alley, huh? I was pretty sure you were gonna save me, though, 'cuz Zan said there was somebody following us and BOY was he mad!" She giggled.

Weylyn clapped a hand gently over her mouth to stop the bubbly tirade. "I'm glad to see you too, Ellywick. But we had best cut this touching reunion short and…" He paused. "Who in the nine hells is Zan?"

A low chuckle floated across the room, as the dark elf stepped from the shadows, his lavender eyes burning in the soft light. He locked eyes with the pirate and performed an elegant mocking bow.

"I believe I answer to that epithet, my dear fellow. Or, more correctly, Zankazean Mandobrias. However, your little friend here doesn't seem to have the patience for that many syllables."

Not taking his eyes off of the elf, Weylyn carefully picked Ellywick up and set her down behind him. Within seconds, he had rolled smoothly to his feet and had his hand on his rapier once again.

"Ellywick, I want you to get out of here. Go with Tal; he's a perfectly nice fellow."

"But Weylyn…"

"Not_ now_, Ellywick! Take her, Tal. Run. I'll take care of this pompous excuse of a spider whore's boot licker."

The dark elf smiled humorlessly at him, revealing fangs. "That may be going a bit too far, you spineless son of a wharf rat."

Ignoring Ellywick's shrill protests, the two leapt for each others' major arteries, hissing oaths, threats, and colorful racial slurs. Before any major damage could be inflicted, however, they were brought short by a sudden, soft clearing of the throat.

"Gentlemen, that is hardly necessary."

Weylyn turned from his intended victim and stared in the direction the cough had come from at the shadowy figure he hadn't noticed before. He (She? _It?_) was heavily robed, only a square, beardless chin showing from beneath a dark cowl.

"And Zan my dear; that is no way to treat a guest." The voice was low and slightly husky, but certainly not unpleasant. The figure stood, stretching, and offered a large elegant hand to Weylyn. He found himself peering up a good foot or so into the dark hood. "My name is Bevariel, welcome to my humble abode."

Tal stepped warily from behind Weylyn, running a hand through his tousled hair.

"A gentle welcome indeed, my lady," he said, his words clipped and icy. "But somewhat hard to swallow coming from those who have kidnapped one of our number and nearly killed the others. Namely, us. You will forgive us if we don't go out of our way to return your greeting."

Bevariel smiled softly, turning to the table to fill glasses of wine from a delicate crystal decanter. "Ah yes. I'm afraid you'll have to forgive Zan. He is loyal to a fault, but can be somewhat…overzealous at times." She turned her gaze to the dark elf lounging seemingly carelessly in a chair by the fire, who shot Weylyn an evil grin. "I needed to speak with your friend Ellywick on matters of some importance, and I fear that Zan may have taken my orders that she be brought here at all costs a little…too much to the letter." She handed Weylyn and Tal glasses of a dark red wine. "Please believe me, we meant no harm…no matter what it may have looked like." She looked at Zan again and he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

Weylyn shook his head irritably. "Yes, well and good. And now that you and Ellywick have had your little chat; we'll be going." He spun on his heel and began to stride back towards the stairway. He stopped short, nearly tumbling face first down the steep stairwell as Ellywick attached herself to his leg.

"Bevariel needs our help, Weylyn. Well, I guess _everybody_ needs our help. There's some bad stuff going on, and she needs some heroes and I told her we're the best hero team _ever_ and we don't want people to get hurt do we? So please just listen to her for a little bit, Weylyn. _Pleeeease_?" She looked up at him with big, soulful brown eyes. He glared at her sternly for a fraction of a moment before sighing in surrender.

"Oh, for the love of… Fine. I suppose since we've taken this much time to chase you over bog and briar, we can stay a little longer." He glanced at Tal, and the young ranger shrugged with a half smile, seating himself in one of the oaken chairs. Weylyn did the same, and Bevariel settled herself with a small nod of satisfaction before beginning her tale.

"How versed you two may be in the politics and history of this country, I do not know. There are few your age, however, who don't at least remember faint glimmers of the Red City wars some twenty-five years ago."

Bevariel calmly placed the stopper back onto the decanter and Weylyn raised any eyebrow at her easy, conversational tone. Few indeed could purge the memory of those years from their minds, no matter how hard they tried. Bevariel noted the brief ghost of terror that flitted across the faces of those seated at the table and smiled almost indiscernibly. Tal swallowed.

"The Red City wars," he intoned softly. "So named for the day of the black sorceress Kialla's greatest slaughter before the Knights of the Burning Shield drove her back into the mountains. The day the streets of the Bay of Emeralds were said to be paved with blood."

Bevariel nodded. "Little has been seen of Kialla since she retreated to the Black Spine with what remained of her followers. Most are content to leave her to her mountains and try and forget the horrors she painted across this land all those years ago. I myself am not so lucky." She lifted her hand to touch a small scar that marred the line of her jaw, smiling ironically. "I was there when the Knights drove her out of the Emperor's city. Please, do not think I am bragging when I say the Knights would never have been able to stem her slaughter if it were not for me and the few tricks I had tucked up my sleeves. Kialla has not forgotten this. Far from it."

She rose slowly from her chair and walked over to the single window that looked down on the softly shifting trees. "My eyes within her lair have brought me disturbing news. News of a plot that will not only mean my life, but those of countless thousands of others as well."

Weylyn toyed with the rim of his goblet. He shifted uncomfortably in the high backed chair. Something stank like a long dead haddock here. "If you were powerful enough to driver her away once, my _lady_," The word was laced with ice. "I do not see why she should pose any more of a threat to you now than she did twenty years ago. If Kialla," He swallowed as the name slipped from his tongue; even a hardened soul like his own could not fully forget the terror that the black sorceress had brought to the land when he was only a boy. "If Kialla were to return in all her blazing glory, I do not think it would be too much trouble for you to roust the Knights from polishing their swords long enough to send her on her way once again. That is," he arched an eyebrow. "As it was so simple the last time."

Zan growled low in his throat and rose slowly to his feet, his eyes burning.

"Bevariel has no need to prove herself to the likes of you, wharf rat. I'd suggest you sit and listen quietly before I'm forced to do something I won't regret in the least." Bevariel raised a hand and he sank reluctantly back to his seat, still toying with the pommel of his longsword.

"I never said it was simple, Weylyn. Battling Kialla, even with the near entirety of the Knight's order at my back showed me things…I do not wish to behold again. That, however, is not the point. Might alone will not save lives this time, Weylyn." She turned to face the pirate alone, her eyes gleaming beneath the dark hood. "Kialla is a clever bitch, and this time it may be the ruin of our people."

Weylyn laughed, resting his elbows against the table. "_Our_ people? I don't know what family ties you are searching for, Bevariel; but I can assure you they are not there. I have no people."

Bevariel paused, and then slowly lifted a hand to pull the hood back from her face. "Look well, son of the wood folk. Look hard and see if, millennia past, our grandfather's grandfathers might not have called each other "brother."

The roughspun hood fell to Bevariel's shoulders. An eyebrow climbed slowly to the middle of Weylyn's forehead, and he heard Tal suck in his breath softly to his left. Bevariel's face was broad and square, much stockier than any normal female's. She was by no means a great beauty. And yet… The bone structure was almost delicate, the ears slightly pointed. There was a nearly _ethereal_ quality to her otherwise plain, almost orcish features. Her emerald eyes locked into Weylyn's. It was almost as if she were…

Bevariel smiled. "Half orc… half elf. Yes. We share the tie of the half-blood, Weylyn. If such it can be called." Ellywick bounced excitedly into Weylyn's lap.

"Isn't that _neat_? I thought those two races would _never_ get along but they must have cuz here she is!"

Tal choked on his wine and Weylyn shook his head. "That, my dear, is a logical impossibility. The two races aren't exactly known to seek marital bliss within the affectionate bosom of the other." He sucked in his breath sharply as Ellywick elbowed him in the stomach.

"Don't be rude!"

Bevariel's lips twitched in something that might have been a smile. "Merely improbable; not impossible. The exact details of the union I'm sure you'll understand if I keep to myself."

Tal ran his fingers perplexedly through his hair, making it stick up in random directions. "Well that's… That's all very well and good, but… You'll forgive me for sounding impudent, I'm sure… What exactly does this have to do with Kialla coming back to haunt us?"

Ellywick rolled her eyes at the stupidity of the young ranger. "Tell him, Bevy." She poked Weylyn in the chest. "Shhh. This is the important bit."

Bevariel nodded at the irrepressible little gnome and replaced her hood before continuing. "Kialla has her spies, as I have my own. Through some word of mouth or another she has learned that I am a half-breed. The trouble, for her at least, is she is not certain whether I am half elf or half orc, as she has heard both." She returned to the table and picked up the decanter, delicately tracing the fine etching on the crystal as she gathered her words.

"Unfortunately for us, she has found a rather creative way around this. Kialla has created a disease— a sickness born on the wind that will only strike down those of halfelven or halforcin blood. An infected half-orc has approximately one week before his muscles start rotting away. An infected half-elf has the same amount of time before his skin begins to bleed. It goes very much without saying that death, for each, follows quickly."

Tal's chair scraped gratingly across the ancient wooden floorboards as he suddenly stood. "That is madness. There are thousands upon thousands of half-bloods on this continent alone. If what you're saying is true, that would be mass genocide beyond what even Kialla's black heart could fathom."

Bevariel regarded Tal coolly for several moments, not dignifying his outburst with a reply. She set the decanter down again with a decisive thump. "We have less than a year before Kialla's plague spreads across the continent." She turned back to Weylyn. "This is why this time force of arms will not be enough. This is why I sent Zan to seek Ellywick."

Ellywick bounced to her feet and puffed out her chest proudly. "I'm going on a mission! Bevy's going to stay here and search this tower's library for the cure, while _I'm_ going to Kialla's mountain to look for one too!"

Weylyn turned slowly and stared at the excited little gnome, a look of complete disbelief crawling across his features. He shook his head and snorted. "Out of the question. Ellywick, my dear; that is suicide plain and simple." He stood up decisively, smoothing the wrinkles in his breeches, and turned toward their host. "It's been a very lovely time, and we thank you for the wine, but unfortunately, we have to be going. Ta." With a humorless half-smile he turned on his heel and began striding towards the door.

Ellywick looked up at him pleadingly. "But Weylyyyn! We have to help all those people! And Bevy and Zan! And you're a half…half thingy elf too, you know. And and and… and I don't want you to _die_!"

Weylyn looked up from re-buckling his swordbelt. "I'm sorry Ellywick. It's far too dangerous and I absolutely forbid you to go."

Something dangerous lit up behind Ellywick's eyes. Had Weylyn noticed it two seconds earlier, he very likely would not have ended up flat on his ass, slightly smoking. Unfortunately for him, he didn't. As such, he woke up several seconds later to the sight of a very angry gnome standing on his chest, glaring down at him.

"Forbid me? _Forbid_ me? Don't be ridiculous, Weylyn. I like you and all, but the thought of you thinking you can force me to do anything makes me laugh. Ha. Ha," she added for emphasis. "I'm gonna save you whether you like it or not, so you might as well get used to it." She jumped off of his chest and stalked over to the window pouting furiously.

Weylyn lay on the ground for a few moments, wheezing softly and pondering this particular piece of information.

"Right ho, then. When do we start?"

Ellywick shrieked and nearly killed him; jumping on to his chest and doing her best to hug the life out of him. "You'll come and help? Really really? This is gonna be so much _fun_!"

Weylyn groaned and got up slowly. "Why not? It's not like I have much of anything better to occupy my time. And I suppose it would be the…" He grimaced, almost as if he could hear the faint echoes of Olidammara's merriment in his mind. "_…heroic_ thing to do."

Bevariel watched the two, smiling softly. "Well and good then. You had best start as soon as possible. I will not lie to you. This will be difficult and dangerous. Kialla is powerful and crafty. Do not underestimate the horrors she is capable of bringing to life." She stepped back to survey the little group. "But perhaps I can tip the scales a fraction more in your favor by rounding out your numbers." She beckoned to Zan, and he slid smoothly to his feet to stand by her side. "I will send Zan with you. He is a more than capable fighter and a good man to have at your back. In order for this mission to succeed, you will all need all the help you can get."

The dark elf grinned malevolently at Weylyn, the points of his fangs glinting in the candlelight. Bevariel gave a long-suffering sigh.

"_Both _of you… _try_ to look past your differences for the sakes of those whose lives balance on your actions."

Weylyn and Zan stepped forward, the hatred between them very nearly radiating in visible waves. Under Bevariel's stern glare, they clasped forearms grudgingly, and the sound of bones grinding together echoed in the little room.

The corner of Bevariel's mouth twitched once upwards. "There. One big happy family."

At the base of the tower, the little group hurriedly stuffed the provisions that Bevariel had provided into travel bags. Weylyn glanced at Tal running a whetstone over one of his curved daggers.

"I do not ask you to come with us Tal."

The young ranger shrugged his thin shoulders. "I am not a man to abandon a friend so easily, Weylyn." He shoved the dagger back into its sheath with a sharp clack. "Unfortunately, my battle is still here. The Stone Brothers are still festering within my forest and I mean to drive them out, whatever the cost." He clasped Weylyn's arm and smiled. Weylyn returned his grin slowly, troubled by something he saw in the young ranger's eyes—a faraway look that bordered on the obsessive. He looked again, however, and it was gone. Tal turned back to stuffing rations into a sack.

"I can, however, travel with you as far as the Bay of Emeralds. I have business there anyway. You could use an extra pair of hands, I'm sure, and an extra set of eyes."

Weylyn rolled his eyes dramatically. "And perhaps an extra voice of sanity to keep me from strangling a certain babbling gnome…" He laughed as he ducked the sudden barrage of waterskins coming from behind him.

"I _heard_ that!"

Zan finished carefully buckling the silver clasp of his sword belt. He glanced up at Bevariel, passively watching him prepare to leave. As he shouldered his pack, she walked up and placed a small, ivory key in his hand. Her emerald eyes met and held his violet ones.

"You know what you must do, Zankazean. Reveal nothing to them." She turned her back to him to gaze out across the moonlit forest. "Do not fail me in this."

Zan grinned wolfishly and gave an elegant bow.

"My lady…" With a flash of black wings he was gone. The tower was silent after he left, and soon not even the swaying of branches betrayed the fact that a tiny mismatched group of wanderers may have one time passed that way.


	9. A Questing We Will Go

Author's Note: Ha! You thought you'd all gotten rid of me, didn't you!? Well...too bad! Once again, sorry for the long wait. But I was busy kicking some thespian ass here at CMU Summer Theatre 'O4, and there was not much time for dallying with this odd little story. I want to shout out some thanks, cuz this chapter owes a lot to a lot of people: first to all you lovely reviewers out there who are still sticking with me, next to my wonderful Betas, Craeft and LaughingWolf, also to Jim Henson for providing the inspiration for Fizzgig, and last, but certainly not least, the magnificent people at Council of Elrond who helped me with the elvish used in this chapter. Thank you all ten thousand times. Peace.

-EC

Another day. Another forest. It had been raining since dawn-- fat heavy curtains of water that rattled through the leaves and pounded the soft loam to mud. And now, evening was falling. Far in the west, a shamefaced sun finally chose to peak out from behind the dark clouds that had obscured it since daybreak and peer down at the world. It lined the hovering mists in silver and shone its faded light on the dripping trees, painting them a watery gold in the evening air. It flashed in minute diamonds as a bluebird shook the shivering droplets from its wings and took to the evening air. Winking a solemn ink-drop eye at the fading sun, it opened its throat and warbled its own sweet requiem as the day breathed its last.

Weylyn threw a rock at it.

"Look, all I'm saying is if Bevariel's map is correct, we should have hit the Silverrush by now. We passed the Gap of Calion almost a week ago but haven't seen so much as a dried up streambed." Weylyn kicked irritably at the damp, bobbing heads of milkweed as he stormed about the little camp. "I'm no landlubber, I will admit, but if this is river country, I'm a half-drowned rat."

The little group huddled damply and miserably around a sullenly smoking fire that did little to push away the wet chill of the evening. Zan cracked an eye open from where he reclined on a piece of canvas stretched fastidiously over the soggy earth. He snorted.

"So, you're saying it's a good possibility then?" He ignored the searing look Weylyn sent his way and stretched lazily. "Put your swash back behind your buckle, my dear fellow. We are entirely on course. The storms must have slowed us down more than we thought they had, and this is undoubtedly why we have not yet reached the river. If you have the wit to show a little patience, I am sure we'll see the Rush splashing its merry way along by tomorrow."

Weylyn nodded with mock solemnity. "Oh, yes." He plunked down onto a felled log and ran his thumb absently down the blade of his rapier, testing the edge. "_Or_ we'll see nothing but forest, forest, and more thrice damned forest as far as the eye can follow until we starve to death. But it will _definitely_ be one of those two."

They had been traveling for well over three weeks and for Weylyn to say the company had been 'exasperating' really didn't give it the credit it deserved. He mulled over the thought in his mind as the fire began to glow brighter in the dying watery light. No...it wasn't so much that traveling with an obsessive albeit relatively polite human, a babbling gnome, and an arrogant, homicidal drow was _exasperating_... It was more that there were times he felt he would gladly gnaw his own leg off than spend five more blasted minutes on this fool's errand. And _now_ they were lost. Despite Zan's unending pontification to the contrary; he was sure of that much. Icing on the sweet roll of this bloody little jaunt.

He glanced at Zan sharpening his highly polished claws on a dagger. The drow felt his gaze and glanced up; bearing a fang in what might have been a smile. Weylyn shook his head and looked away, feeling the familiar knot of intense dislike clench in his gut.

Zan.

_There _was a thorn he could do entirely without on this excursion. Weylyn wasn't exactly sure what the core reason behind his hatred of the dark elf was It may have been the elf's perpetual sneer, or his endless, laconic barrage of snide comments, or the aura of 'smug' that constantly surrounded him... He shook his head slowly. Though, in all honesty, Zan had, so far, proved exactly as Bevariel had promised: a good man to have at your back in a pinch, skilled with both blade and spell. Weylyn shrugged inwardly. And an ex-pirate could hardly look down on someone else for being...morally untidy. And yet... He sighed inwardly. Perhaps it was that he had spent enough time down in cargo holds to know when he smelled a rat

Zan growled back in his throat, snapping Weylyn back to the present. "I hate to interrupt what is no doubt a profound reverie, but do I _need_ to remind you that _one_ of us would have no trouble getting the proverbial bird's-eye view of the surroundings assuming we _were_ lost?" He half unfurled his wings with a smug flourish.

Then of course, it could be that Zan was just an unbearable bastard.

The young pirate laughed mirthlessly. "Do I _need_ to remind _you_ that yesterday that same one of us couldn't find the North Star when it practically came up and bit him in the face? Face it, Zan; we are completely, irrevocably, undeniably, without a doubt lost and thus, into the bargain, absolutely seven ways buggered." He snorted derisively and, shaking the damp hair out of his face, began tearing a stick to pieces and tossing them sullenly into the fire.

He blinked as his dark thoughts were broken by a sudden tug at his head and a girlish giggle floating over his left shoulder. He turned quickly; reaching for the dagger tucked into his boot, and gave a short sigh of vexation as he caught Ellywick with a guilty smile and a fistful of his hair. She had already managed to stealthily braid half of it, and was busily stuffing small, rather bedraggled looking flowers into the plaits. He raised an eyebrow and was about to make a scathing remark when she smiled beautifully and dropped a handful of the little petals into his hand.

"Violets!" she sang. "They look pretty with your eyes."

Weylyn rubbed at his temples and elbowed Tal who was rather unsuccessfully trying to choke back his laughter. Zan smiled wolfishly.

"Ah yes... If we ever get out of this gods forsaken wilderness, you will indeed be the Belle of the Ball." His laughter was cut off as he was pegged square in the face with a pinecone.

"That, my _friend_," spat Weylyn. "Will depend entirely on how long it takes you to pull your head out of your winged arse and get us _un_lost in this 'gods forsaken wilderness.' " Icing_ on the sweet roll..._

Zan smirked, half baring his fangs and rolled smoothly to his feet.

"I think I'd much prefer pulling your head from your sorry shoulders and leaving it to the wolves. However, as the wolves never did anything to me...." He turned on his heel and began striding arrogantly away. The effect was slightly ruined, however, as Ellywick immediately attached herself to his leg, alternating a soulful brown-eyed gaze between the two bickering half-elves.

"Please, please, pleeeease don't fight! We'll never get out of these woods if you guys don't learn to be nice and that wouldn't be good at all 'cuz the woods are full of bugs and dark even if they do have lots of nice fuzzies and I don't want to get eaten by _bears_!" She jumped back to her feet suddenly, planting her little fists sternly on her hips and fixing them both with an impressive glare.

"_You, _Weylyn, need to remember that Zan doesn't have a mommy and you need to be extra nice to him. And _speaking _of your mommy, Mr. Zan, she must be ashamed of you-- fighting like a little elfling. What would she say if she were here right now?"

For a moment, the ghost of a wistful smile touched Zan's mouth. It was, without a doubt, one of the most horrible things Weylyn had ever seen. "Oh, I don't know," the dark elf said, straightening his silken shirt deliciously. "Probably something like cough gack...let...let go...I sputter cough...can't seem to...breath...choke gurgle die...'" He blinked, shaking daydreams from his head, and reached down to detach Ellywick, his mouth once again a tight line of distaste.

"But that is neither here nor there. Perhaps if you are all so worried about our present location...not that I have any doubts about where we are of course," he finished hurriedly. "You might ask our ranger friend. These woods are _his_ domain, after all." He sat down in a huff, and pulling an intricate harp from his pack, began tuning it.

"Tal?"

Weylyn glanced at Tal leaning up against a birch tree across the fire and frowned distractedly. The ranger had seemed increasingly...preoccupied ever since they had left Bevariel's tower. It seemed to Weylyn that he had spoken, laughed, and eaten less with every mile they passed. If he knew Tal, the young man was lost once again in dreams of freeing his forest home from the mercenaries that plagued her. Weylyn shook his head worriedly; if the ranger wasn't careful, it was an obsession that would slowly eat him alive...if it hadn't already.

"Tal!"

Tal finally looked up from where he had been shaping willow branches into a snare and shook his head morosely when they had repeated the question. "I'm afraid I won't be much help to you-- at least, not as much as you hope. We are no longer in the Westwood. The range of hills we passed three days ago was the Dead Man's Fingers; they border my forest to the south." He shrugged frustratedly, pulling a strip of bark away from a supple branch with his teeth. "I can tell you that we are most probably somewhere in the western reaches of the Forest of Telperynn, probably to the north of the elven city of Gwilwilith...but even that is only at best a guess. I used to know the ranger that watched over Telperynn, but my kind can be reclusive, and I have not seen him for years."

Zan raised the corner of his mouth in half a mocking grin. "Well, I hate to say I told you so, but..." He paused, arching a silver eyebrow in thought. "Wait. No I don't. I _told_ you so." He chuckled dryly. "I may leave you to the wolves yet, _hero._"

Weylyn growled softly as he felt his fingers start itching. In an almost subconscious movement, he reached for the dagger tucked into his boot. As his hand closed over the handle, however, he bit back a hiss of distress as the familiar burning pain lanced through the tattoo on his arm, reminding him of his limitations when it came to people he didn't particularly care for. His arm gave an involuntary spasm of agony and the boot knife dropped unused from his fingers.

Releasing the breath he had been holding through his teeth, Weylyn sighed in frustration and, shoving himself to his feet again, stomped out of the clearing.

"Weeeeylyyyyn!" called Ellywick. "Where are you going?"

The young pirate paused, rubbing his temples. "I'm going to see if I can find our bearings." He flipped his walking stick up off of the ground with his foot and caught it with a snap. "And if I can't find those...I'm going to find at least five bloody minutes of quiet and _relish_ them."

"But I'm not finished with your hair!"

He bit back an irritated retort and grinned over his shoulder at the little gnome. "Beauty can wait for a few minutes, my lovely. I'll be back shortly."

Tal looked up from his work again, shaking the brown hair out of his eyes. "Mind yourself, my friend. These woods are not my domain, and I cannot begin to guess whether or not any great dangers lie hidden here. We do not want to lose you at this point in the game."

Zan barked a short laugh. "Oh yes... Gods forbid."

Weylyn tossed them all a mirthless smile, flipped Zan a subtle obscene gesture, and stomped on his way again, the small forest creatures flying in his wake. He walked for a good twenty minutes or so, his jaw clenching tighter with each step. Coming upon a large black oak, he leaned his forehead against it with a resigned sigh.

'_The belle of the ball' indeed. I ought to strangle the smug right out of that bastard. _He snorted. _And yet I highly doubt, somehow, that the outright murder of one's comrades in arms would be considered "heroic" by a certain meddling deity. _His grip on his walking staff tightened until his knuckles turned white. _No matter how satisfying it would be to wipe the grin off of his face with a really big stick._

In an abrupt burst of fury he attacked the tree before him with his staff, beating his frustrations out on the unyielding bark which suddenly seemed to bear Zan's snide smirking face. With each vicious whack he muttered his own dark mantra to himself.

"A hero does _not _kill his traveling companions. A hero does _not_ kill his traveling companions. A hero does _not_ kill his traveling companions. A hero does _not..._"

A skittering laugh raced through the air, chilling the young pirate and causing him to pause mid-swing. He knew that voice.

"I know a few druids who would say that a hero also does _not_ attack innocent plant life. But...I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt on this one."

Weylyn closed his eyes painfully, discontinuing his persecution of the oak and resting his sweaty forehead against his staff with resignation.

"What do you want, Olidammara?"

The colorful little god laughed, suddenly popping into being in a high fork of the oak's limbs. "What does anyone want, young laddie-me-buck? Life? Liberty? Happiness? They're nothing but candles in the wind, my lad. Candles in the wind..."

Weylyn glared up into Olidammara's diamond eyes with impotent anger. "Candles that I am currently not in possession of; thanks to you I might add." He swept the sweat dampened hair out of his eyes and shifted his grip on the smooth wood of his staff. "Now; to what do I owe the extreme displeasure of seeing you again?"

Olidammara's eyes glittered dangerously, but his laugh was light and genuine. "Oh...just thought I'd check up on my favorite little gamble. See how the new mantle was settling on your shoulders and all that. Apparently not too well, judging by your little slip up with your drow friend over there."

Weylyn narrowed his eyes. "I can get abuse quite easily back in the camp, Olidammara. I don't especially need it from the gods as well. So, unless you have something especially important to tell me, I think I'll be on my way..."

He turned, and was not shocked to feel the familiar bands of power tightening around his arms and holding him in place. To his surprise, however, no vicious beating followed. Curious, the young pirate glanced over his shoulder at the rogue god, arching an eyebrow in question.

The little god shifted uncomfortably in the high branches of the tree, his mocking eyes almost serious. "You didn't think I would throw you out into the world of 'do-gooding' without a little help once in awhile, did you?" He plucked a leaf from a branch, reflectively tearing it to pieces as if he could find answers within the crushed stems. Apparently he didn't find what he was looking for, as he shook his foxy head in frustration and sighed. "Something big is happening, Weylyn. Something bigger than this piffy little _quest_ you're currently amusing yourself with. Something that has clouded my vision like a locust's swarm." He raised a hand to wave away any questions Weylyn was about to ask. "Even I cannot see the entire picture right now, but I _do _feel new winds are blowing...and I don't like it one bit."

Weylyn shivered despite himself. A careless, infuriating trickster god he was by now used to. Seeing Olidammara actually apprehensive about something that he apparently couldn't even describe was more than a little worrying. The corsair shook his head, shrugging the unwelcome feelings of doubt off in favor of impudence. "I don't see what you want me to do about it."

Olidammara sighed theatrically, as if apologizing for what he was about to do. Quicker than thought, Weylyn found himself lifted into the air and slammed painfully into the trunk of a tree. He let out a low moan of pain, dizzily trying to pull air back into his lungs as the rogue god's power pinned him there immovably. He had expected this; very rarely had his confrontations with the god of rogues leave him with anything less than a few good lacerations and a terrible headache, but it took his breath away nonetheless. He tried blinking away the explosions of white and yellow before his eyes and the world came slowly back into a blurry focus.

Olidammara tumbled gracefully out of his perch to stand staring furiously up at the young half elf.

"I _want_ you to start taking things a little more seriously, if that's not too much to ask!" Olidammara hissed, the air around him alive and fairly humming with the power of his surprising intensity. "I have put too much effort into your sorry hide to see you go and get yourself killed because you were too thick to listen to a fair warning. From a _god_ nonetheless! By the scythe of Nerull, boy, just how stupid can you _be_?!"

He sighed, and turning released Weylyn, letting him slide slowly to the forest floor where he lay gasping like a half spent fish. "As much as you are loath to do it, Blackwolf; you must trust me. Something powerful is coming—something even my eyes cannot fully see, and you may find yourself dumped ass over teakettle into the middle of it." He turned once more, locking gazes with Weylyn, his diamond blue eyes dark and unfathomable. "Watch your back, Weylyn Blackwolf. A god watches over his children, my boy; but there is only so much I can do."

"Weylyn? Who on earth were you talking to?"

Weylyn spun as there was the sudden sound of snapping twigs behind him, and by the time he turned back to the oak, Olidammara had gone. He wearily released the breath he had been shakily holding and sank to the earth.

"Oh...no one, Ellywick. I was with the trees to find the correct direction of...of moss growth in correlation to..." He looked down to see her gazing at him in wide-eyed skepticism and shook his head irritably. "Look, it really doesn't matter. It's an elf thing, okay?"

The little gnome arched an eyebrow and carefully laid a hand on his forehead, checking the half elf for signs of fever.

"Are you sure? I had an uncle Neville once who used to talk to trees like that and it wasn't two weeks before we found him hanging by his toes in a tulip maple in nothing but his alltogethers and singing the most awful song about hedgehogs..."

The young pirate laughed in spite of himself and plucked her hand gently from his forehead. Despite Ellywick's impressively high ability to irritate and nearly endless arsenal of mind numbing chatter; Weylyn was finding to his mounting annoyance that he just could not stay angry when in her company. As the weeks had trudged on since the little mismatched group had taken to the road, he had almost come to take a comfort in her presence. With Tal retreating into his own thoughts the farther they got from the Westwood, and Zan... Well...with Zan being Zan; Weylyn had found himself increasingly glad of her company.

_If Rellan could only see me now, I hope to everything holy he'd put me out of my misery. By the gods, what a nursemaid I've become. _He gave a rueful smile. _Ah, well. I aear siria ias anira... _

"Rest easy, my dear. I have no intention of ending up anywhere in my...alltogethers. At least not while Zan is within five hundred miles."

Ellywick threw her head back and laughed, her golden hair catching the last dying light. "That's good. You'd look silly."

Weylyn raised an eyebrow...and just decided to let it pass. "So," He plopped down in front of the oak and patted the ground next to him, motioning Ellywick to join him. "What's a delightful little thing like you doing in my neck of the woods?"

She plopped down next to him and leaned her head on his shoulder with a tired sigh.

"Trying to hunt _you_ down, you big silly. You could get even more lost than we already are (but don't tell Zan that I said we are) and that wouldn't be very good at all!" She tapped his nose and giggled. "So don't go running off where I can't look after you."

Weylyn put on a mock serious face and saluted grandly. "Your wish is my command, sweet lady."

Ellywick giggled again then shook her head, trying to be serious. "Stop being so silly!" She leaned closer to him, excitedly. "There's another reason I came to find you. I think I have a way out of here, Weylyn! I was thinking and it came to me all of a sudden after you left, so I came after you to tell you that I think I can get us unlost! It's in here." She bent over and started digging furiously in her backpack, pulling out bits of string, shiny objects and random spell components as she searched.

Weylyn raised an eyebrow as he dodged a flying crow's foot. "What on earth are you...?"

"Here he is!" she sang. "Look!" She thrust the open sack dramatically towards Weylyn's face with a triumphant grin.

He peered into the jumbled depths with some trepidation. There, perched on its haunches on a stack of scrolls and making quiet purring noises sat...well..._something. _It resembled nothing more than an oversized brown fuzzball with eyes. It gazed soulfully up at Weylyn and chirped.

The young half elf's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He reached a finger carefully into the bag to prod the little oddity. "What...?"

He never got farther than "what." With an earsplitting snarl, the fuzzball leapt straight at Weylyn's outstretched hand, its mouth suddenly _much_ larger and full of dozens of razor sharp fangs. Weylyn yanked back his hand with a feminine shriek, his eyes wide and staring.

"_WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS IS THAT !?"_

Ellywick exploded into childish laughter, rocking herself back and forth in the damp leaves and cradling the once again docile fuzzball. "It's a Fizzgig, silly! He's my familiar and he's gonna help us out of here!"

Weylyn arched an eyebrow as the little creature jumped out of Ellywick's arms and snuffled around his feet.

"How exactly is this...thing...going to help us?"

Fizzgig growled at Weylyn as Ellywick tickled its ears. "He's really, really smart. I bet you he can _sniff_ his way out of this forest! Or at least to the nearest town or river or...or..._something_!"

Weylyn rolled his eyes incredulously and let his head fall back to rest against the trunk of the tree.

"Wonderful. A walking dust-bunny with teeth is going to get us out of this mess." He closed his eyes. "How apropos."

Ellywick shot the pirate a look, but was quickly distracted as Fizzgig went suddenly streaking across the clearing, yipping all the way. The little fuzzball stopped dead in front of a thick copse of trees, growling low in its little throat.

Ellywick shrieked with joy. "You see? You see? I _told_ you he'd find the way out of here!"

Weylyn cracked an eye open lazily. He opened his mouth to comment, but paused suddenly, as he began to notice an unnatural quite gathered around them. He cocked his head, listening curiously. No. No birdsong. No rustling of scavenging rodents. No sound but that of Ellywick's nonstop babble. It was as if the forest was holding its breath. Waiting.

He eased himself slowly out of his sitting position, bracing himself against the rough black bark of the oak.

"Ellywick? Come over here, will you? Slowly."

The little gnome looked up and raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, Weylyn. This is hardly the time to be afraid of a silly old forest. We're gonna be out of it soon so just _relax_ and I'll look after you."

The corsair shook his head. "I really think... What in the nine hells...?"

Fizzgig, pacing on his short legs at the edge of the clearing, had stopped his growling and started a high pitched yapping that shrieked eerily through the stillness of the forest glade. Weylyn stood up, straining his eyes to see what the odd little familiar was so upset about, his hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his rapier.

In a heartbeat, the air was full of the furious snapping of branches and whistling of leaves as a ragged man burst into the clearing, gasping for breath and searching the clearing with wide, staring eyes. His clothes were in tatters and stained so dark with blood, the original color could hardly be told. Fixing his mad glare on Weylyn, he bounded over to the young half elf and grabbed his shoulders in a boney death grip. His breath came in heaving sobs, leaving him only enough air for one word.

"Run!"

_I aear siria ias anira— Elven for "The sea flows where it desires..."_


	10. In Which Fizzgig is Ferocious

Author's Note: Well, well, well, if it hasn't been a step around the block or so since -this- little piece of mirth and madness has been updated! For those of you who have followed from the beginning, I'm once again sorry for the absurdly long wait. Life got in the way again, as it tends to do. This chapter is short, but another one will hopefully follow closely on its heels. By Hook or by Sparrow, this story will eventually be completed. For those of you who've never seen this story before in your sad, unfulfilled lives...enjoy!

Weylyn arched a brow sharply, but whatever questions he had were given no time to be voiced as a sudden torrent of clamor erupted from the woods beyond the clearing with a sound like a hurricane in miniature tearing through the leaves and bracken. The noise of shattering wood and snapping branches clashed harshly with Fizzgig's frantic yapping and a sudden wailing cry of warning from Ellywick.

"Weylyyyyn! Trolls!"

The world froze.

Weylyn heard nothing but the rush of blood in his ears as his hand seemed to drop to the hilt of his rapier so slowly he could count the moments between the beating of his heart.

_Oh, shit…_

Time snapped back into place in a shattered second as the first troll lumbered into the clearing, steam rising from the oily green hump of its back in the chill of the evening air. It rumbled to a stop, nearly getting bowled over by the two that came running up behind it as it stopped to peer stupidly at the little group. A thin line of spittle made its lazy way from the beast's fat bottom lip to plop on the forest floor. It pondered.

"Huh," said the troll.

"Huh," said its companions.

"More," said the troll.

"More," said its companions.

"Quite a few more!" Ellywick chimed in, not wishing to be disagreeable.

As the trolls turned their heavy heads as one to stare at the little gnome, Weylyn felt the familiar pain growing behind his eyes that was so often the result of Ellywick in general. If he had anything to say about it, though, his words were cut off before they passed is lips as Fizzgig took his moment. With a snarl and a flash of fur, the little familiar lunged forward and sank his sizeable fangs into the nearest troll's fleshy ankle.

The troll paused…and considered this a moment.

Those that know the basic mentality of your run-of-the-mill forest troll will find it no surprise that it did not consider long. Your average troll has two emotions: angry and hungry. And usually they don't bother too terribly much about separating the two. A roar split the night air like summer thunder as the troll lifted up the heavy tree limb that passed for its club, intent on smashing the little fuzzball into an unrecognizable furry smear.

Ellywick leaped forward with a shrill cry, brandishing her little fists at the monstrosity before her.

"You big, smelly, stupid, hairy, moss-covered big lumpa jerk! You don't dare hit my Fizzgig or I'll roast you all the way to the Plains of Della and back so fast you won't even know what's roastin' ya!"

With a few words that could hardly be called polite, Weylyn shoved his ash stave into the hands of the ragged stranger, hissing softly to him.

"Bucko, I have a clear hope that you can wield this with more talent than the state of you seems to claim." Without waiting for a reply, he lunged after Ellywick, hitting her with a rolling tackle and bowling her to one side just as the troll's heavy club hit the earth with a resounding smash where she had been standing.

Weylyn glanced back with wide eyes at the treetrunk of a club that had landed itself squarely between his splayed legs.

"Holy sweet mother of…"

The club was lifted again with a groan from the troll, giving the pirate no time to finish his colorful line of thought. He shoved Ellywick out of the way quickly, ignoring her squeak of protest as he rolled forward and drew the dagger and rapier from their sheaths with a clear ringing of metal that was quickly silenced as he buried the blades in the troll's pendulous belly. There was a rather hideous _splorch_ sound that mingled with the troll's grunt of surprise as Weylyn roughly jerked the blades free. And then, all nine layers of hell broke loose.

The world was dashed from under him as the swipe of a great meaty fist caught him square to the side of his head. It sent him tumbling to one side and landed him up against a large and unforgiving tree with a sickening crunch. Dirt and detritus fell in small showers around his head as he shook the stars clear just in time to see the revenge of an angry little gnome.

Ellywick stood like a sparrow against a storm, her fists planted firmly on her hips and her large eyes blazing. She managed an angry mutter of, "Well…well…_REALLY_!" before her hands came together in a blindingly fast dance of gesture. Power crackled around her, blazed and formed into a miniature conflagration that burst forth from her small hands and caught the troll square in the chest. The force of roaring flames sent the monster tumbling backward and filled the air with a stench that Weylyn didn't care to dwell too much upon.

He didn't have time to. The fall of their companion seemed to snap the other two trolls into action who, until now, had stood behind in an almost hypnotized stupor at the antics of their leader and these tiny, noisy beings. One bore what looked like a rusted and oversized scimitar that still managed to hold a nasty looking edge to it. Bringing it up with a grunt, he swung it down with eager force at the little gnome that had just turned his chief into a smoking carcass.

Weylyn wasn't sure if it was the blood in his veins that gave him strength or the color of Ellywick's widened eyes as he pushed himself off of the damp and rotting earth and tumbled forward, catching the scimitar on the crossed hilts of his blades. The force of the blow drove him back a few feet, his boots plowing slim furrows in the piled leaves. He grit his teeth as the bones in his wrists ground together with a soft complaining groan, but did not dare risk the glance behind himself to see if Ellywick had gotten clear. Another foot back. Another. With a prayer that she was away, he lurched back with a low snarl, letting the scimitar slide free of the rapier with an agonized screech of metal on metal.

Weylyn stumbled back, pins and needles shooting briefly through his forearms at the release in pressure. To his right, he caught a brief glimpse of the ragged stranger, wielding the borrowed quarterstaff with talent and surprising strength for a man in as desperate a condition as he was. Both ends of the stave were brought into play. Rapidly as snakestrike they lashed out at the lumbering brute, maddening it further as its clumsy blows failed to connect.

The young pirate wasn't left with much time for idle musing though. The troll before him had dislodged the blade from the loamy earth and was swinging it heavily once more. Weylyn dodged lightly to the side, the thin blades of rapier and dagger opening jagged lines in the thick, rubbery muscle of the monster's arm. With a roar of pain, the scimitar was brought back again, and this time even Weylyn's dancing footsteps were not enough to get him fully clear of the blow. The rusted metal of the blade caught him full in the shoulder, tearing into flesh and sending the pirate spinning once again. He hit the ground, arching his back in near agony as dirt and stone ground into the open wound.

An explosion of light and an acrid smell flashed through the clearing, announcing Ellywick's presence as she popped up from her hiding place with a little shout. The troll stumbled, giving a low, engraged gurgle and spun around, swiping at the little gnome. There was a small gnomish yipe as Ellywick rolled to the side, dodging and tumbling to avoid the heavy blows. With a sudden squeak, however, her antics were stopped in their tracks. The troll, still slightly smoking, gave a slow, horrible grin as it caught hold of Ellywick at last and wrapped its meaty fingers around her small throat.

Weylyn lurched to his feet slowly. His left arm hung useless at his side and he stood, merely raggedly drawing breath into his lungs for a moment. Ellywick gave a small, strangled cry as the troll began to squeeze, and with a soft curse and the repetition of a question that was growing very familiar, Weylyn leapt forward once again.

_What the hell am I doing?_

Foul breath, a miasma of filth worse than the stench of things long dead and forgotten washed over Ellywick as the troll slowly lifted her. Her tiny feet dangled yards above the torn floor of the forest and the troll squeezed harder, laughing its stupid, guttural laugh as she tightly shut her eyes and fought for air. Growing bored at last of her weakening struggles, the monster gave a final grunt, opening its maw wide and baring a mouthful of twisted, broken teeth with the intent of sinking them into the bruised flesh of her pale face. Ellywick opened her mouth, but she had no breath to scream.

Suddenly, with a squeal of anger and hatred, the troll lurched backward, dropping Ellywick in a crumpled heap on the ground. Weylyn had made his way up behind the two, leaping as the troll leaned forward to bite and sinking his dagger deep into the thick green hump of the monster's back. He clung tightly, wrapping his legs around the beast's middle and hanging onto the blade with his good arm as the troll bellowed and flailed blindly with its huge, thick arms. Jerking the blade free, he stabbed downward again and again. Blinded by the red haze of rage clouding his vision, he had no warning when the second troll came to the aid of its companion.

Enraged by the pained bellowing of its compatriot, the second troll turned its heavy head and growled. It shifted the stained and pitted battleaxe in its hands and roared, batting the ragged stranger aside and swinging the weapon with all its might. There was a dull, sickening crack, and the pirate's eyes opened wide only to cloud over, losing their emerald light as he spat blood and slid slowly to the ground.

Weylyn could see Ellywick screaming, but he couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear much of anything, really. Could only lie there and watch as the first troll knocked the little gnome to the ground with the flat of its rusted blade and pinned her to the earth beneath one clawed foot. The staff of the ragged stranger had been split in half by the second trolls attacks and he swung the pieces in desperation like a pair of light clubs, filling the air with a dull thudding that Weylyn soon couldn't distinguish from the slowly fading beat of his heart. The troll on Ellywick leaned forward slowly, raising its scimitar with a leering grin.

Weylyn strained, seeping blood between clenched teeth as he reached slowly for the fallen dagger that lay just beyond the reach of his fingertips. Two inches. One more...

There was the shriek of sharpened metal.

There was a high pitched, howling scream.


End file.
